


And You Still Have Time to Be

by hypnoshatesme



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ace Gerry, Ace Michael, Blood, Fluff and Angst, How Do I Tag This, Kissing, Mary Keay's A+ Parenting, Murder, Slaughter!Michael, Vampire!Gerry, Vampires, no still not the canon ones, oh right, soft blood drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29081376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypnoshatesme/pseuds/hypnoshatesme
Summary: The seats were still empty, but he was there, on the stage. Gerry instantly recognised him, blond curls in a low ponytail, as it was on every picture Gerry had seen, round face, a mask of concentration as Gerry approached. He seemed to be tuning his violin, long fingers adjusting strings until the frown between his pale brows was gone. Michael Shelley.He looked...sweeter than Gerry had imagined.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley
Comments: 16
Kudos: 37





	And You Still Have Time to Be

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes?? nightly rambling about phonetics gets you unreasonably obsessed with a Highly Specific AU????

Gerry was nervous. He had reasons to be nervous, it had all been a little strange. There had been a job opening, and the phone interview Gerry had to sit through barely deserved to be called that, and then he had the job, and a couple weeks later a time and an address. And now he was there, at the address, a little early, but pretty much on time. He dusted himself off, rightened the collar of his shirt and took a slow, unnecessary breath, before stepping through the door and into the hall.

The seats were still empty, but he was there, on the stage. Gerry instantly recognised him, blond curls in a low ponytail, as it was on every picture Gerry had seen, round face, a mask of concentration as Gerry approached. He seemed to be tuning his violin, long fingers adjusting strings until the frown between his pale brows was gone. Michael Shelley.

He looked...sweeter than Gerry had imagined. He was a lot taller than he had thought, too, but the general air Gerry was used to from the photographs, intense, nearly aggressive, did not add up with the man in front of him, edges all soft in the dim light - Gerry assumed the stage lights would be turned on when the concert began - fingers graceful, but methodical. 

Gerry simply stared, trying to understand how this was the same person as the Michael Shelley, rumoured to bring bad luck and violence with his devilish play, and yet still drawing crowds upon crowds, some unaware, some disbelieving and some curious. Many simply to enjoy the music, said to be indescribable, unreal, worth it.

He looked up from his violin and caught sight of Gerry. A short moment of confusion passed over his features, then there was a smile, friendly, soft, but also not. There was something else to it and Gerry couldn’t put a finger on it as Michael descended the stage, came to a stop in front of him.

“Gerard Keay?”

His voice was strange, melodic, but there was some tumbling in it, a rumble. Gerry blinked, nodded.

Michael held out his hand, the one not holding the violin, and Gerry shook it. It felt soft and rough at the same time and Gerry found himself thinking that it made sense. It fit.

“You can call me Gerry, if you want,” he said because Gerry had tired of Gerard when he was still alive and liked trying to discourage people from using it for him now that he was dead.

“Perfect. Call me Michael.” The smile on Michael’s face was nearly blinding, and Gerry thought there was something sharp to it. But he returned it with a tentative one of his own.

“Your...manager? Told me I could bring my own equipment.”

“Oh, yes, you’re fine. I’ve seen your work. It’s perfect.” He added, nonchalant, “If you should be interested, we did bring the last photographer’s things. But yours is fine.”

Michael mentioned the last photographer like an afterthought, like the sentence didn’t imply they had left without their equipment for some reason.

Gerry raised an eyebrow. “They left their camera behind?”

Michael shrugged. “An accident. Nobody came to collect it.” 

There was a bit more honey in his voice when he said that than was strictly appropriate for the contents of that sentence, but it felt strangely right and Gerry simply shrugged, and followed when Michael signalled for him to do so. 

He showed Gerry around quickly, explained where he could leave his things and that, generally, the pictures themselves were completely left to Gerry. He was surprised at hearing that. Usually clients had, if not suffocatingly specific, then at least vaguely incomprehensible requests for their photographs. But Gerry wasn’t complaining and when Michael asked if he could go back to get ready himself Gerry nodded and watched him hurry back to the stage. There were a couple of people there, now, and Michael talked to them, something about the lightning, the sound, but Gerry simply tuned them out and went to set up himself. He didn’t feel as nervous anymore, but relieved and maybe a little excited. The job had sounded too good to be true, and now it seemed to be turning out exactly as described, maybe even better.

The hall filled quickly, a strange combination of people in formal clothes and casual attire. Gerry didn’t feel horribly out of place with his ripped black jeans - he had chosen the least ripped pair - and black dress shirt. He put his hair up in a bun as the lights started to turn on, and Michael, once again, emerged onto the stage, slower, theatrical. The applause was loud, but still polite and Gerry got up from his seat, his camera ready in his hands.

Something changed in the harsh stage light, as Michael brought the bow to his violin. All softness was gone with the first note and Michael was on fire. His long fingers were a blur as he played, eyes half-closed, and somehow still piercing, intense, all of him demanding attention. Looking away was not an option, he moved with visceral elegance, and there was something harsh to it, a threat to anyone who dared to think of looking away, not watch and listen to the piercing sound of the violin, loud, nearly aggressive but with a strange sweetness to it. 

Gerry could only stare, frozen. It wasn’t his first concert of this kind, not even the first one he had come to take pictures of during the performance, but this was still utterly unexpected. Michael was radiant, bow flying in a strange mixture of grace and aggression, smile on his face angelic in contrast to his intense eyes. Gerry didn’t know how long he had simply stood there, in shock, in awe, in terror, before he finally remembered the camera in his hands and scrambled to get to work. 

His heart had ceased beating a long time ago, but Gerry still felt that phantom fluttering in his chest. He couldn’t exactly interpret it, filed it away as overwhelming surprise, and went to work. Looking at Michael through his lens, zooming in on his pretty face, serene and also like he was about to burst, somehow, an underlying tension that was making the hairs on Gerry’s arms stand up, did nothing to calm Gerry down. And maybe he spent more time watching the details of Michael’s face, following a bead of sweat on his temple, than actually taking any pictures. 

But it was fine. Gerry knew that no matter what he did, he would never be able to capture the energy on stage, in the hall itself. He had previously thought Michael looked intense on the pictures Gerry had seen of him, put they all paled in comparison to Michael Shelley live on stage.  _ Intense _ wasn’t nearly enough to describe him. Gerry was awestruck. 

The audience left both dazed and animated and there seemed to be electricity in the air as the hall slowly emptied after deafening applause. Michael was breathing heavily, face glistening with sweat in the limelight, but he was still the brightest thing in the room, a wide grin on his lips, looking both humble and self-satisfied, that same strange strain in the curve of his lips as Gerry had noticed before, making it look one step removed from a snarl. His eyes were alight and alive and Gerry couldn’t take his eyes off of them, grey looking so vivid, electric, like the sky moments before a storm breaks. There were strands loose from his ponytail, and he looked wild, hairs looking like fire, like lightning when the light caught in them as he gave his thanks and bowed, face flushed a beautiful shade of red. 

He was livid and he was breathtaking and Gerry knew none of it was really in the pictures he was taking. A familiar frustration, an ache he had come to accept over years and years of never quite managing to capture the beauty he saw. It was impossible, and he knew it, but somehow, this felt different. 

Michael, on stage, as he was now winding down, and before, as he played, could not be contained in pictures, probably not even video - he was known for not allowing any form of recording, so such evidence didn’t exist - and the way Michael caught Gerry’s eyes when leaving the stage, a bouquet in his hands, delicate petals paling in Michael’s presence, and winked, Gerry thought he must be well aware of that.

“Did you like it?”

Gerry looked up from packing his things. Michael’s voice sounded calmer now, but there was still an edge to it Gerry couldn’t quite place. It made him itch to do something, though he wasn’t sure what. It wasn’t unpleasant, though.

He nodded, looked up at Michael’s face. The blush had mellowed into something softer, a gentle pink, and there was tiredness in his expression. Somehow, his eyes still looked like they were cutting right through Gerry. He was thankful that him blushing hadn’t been a possibility in a while.

“It was...impressive,” he tried, not wanting to sound as awestruck as he was, but also not wanting to offend Michael. Somehow, that didn’t feel like a good idea. Michael smiled, tooth-gapped and dimpled and Gerry couldn’t help but smile back.

“If you could have some pictures up on the website by the end of the week, that’d be great. If you have any questions, you have our numbers, right?”

Gerry nodded. He had, indeed, been given a couple numbers, though he had not been introduced to their owners tonight. He didn’t mind. He always quite enjoyed how impersonal his work could be.

“Great.” Another brilliant smile, and Michael buttoned up his coat. “Have a good night, then.”

“Thanks.” Gerry was aware that he sounded a little struck, blinded. He cleared his throat. “You, too.”

*

Gerry thought he’d get used to it with time. He didn’t. The juxtaposition between the concerts he actually was there for, experienced, and the pictures he would later edit was, if anything, becoming more and more jarring with time. They looked flat, no matter how much he fixed colour and saturation. 

They were nothing compared to standing in those halls or rooms and watching Michael on stage, the way the attention of every single person in the room was nearly forcefully pulled towards him, and kept there, a vice grip nobody would think to complain about because Michael was the sweep and fall of the notes tumbling from his violin, he was the long, drawn out notes that rung in ears, starting out loud, nearly aggressive, before going soft, gentle, without ever losing any intensity. It was hearing the music itself as much as it was watching Michael’s hypnotic movement, the expression of gentle cruelty on his face, bow like a blade, the strings a throat, the music sweet and sharp, just like him. 

Or maybe it was Michael who was just like his music. It was mesmerizing. It was terrifying. Gerry couldn’t get enough of it.

*

Michael didn’t pay too much mind to the new photographer, not at first. He was a handsome one, dark eyes that sometimes seemed oddly luminescent when the light caught them just right, and sometimes seemingly with no light at all. Dark hair and dark clothes contrasting his pale complexion. He was smaller, but broader than Michael and Michael liked watching him fiddle with his camera, hands big, but movements delicate, precise. He’d sometimes suck in his lower lip when focused and his eyes would look incredibly intense in concentration, and Michael felt something like sadness at his inevitable end. They never lasted long.

Except Gerry didn’t seem to change at all. Concert after concert passed and Gerry seemed the same, hands as steady as ever as he set up his camera, put up his hair. Michael searched his face for the familiar tension, his eyes for a flicker of bloodlust, but there was nothing. At least nothing out of the ordinary, nothing Michael recognised from people before, those that had sat through his performances again and again and slowly, but surely, cracked. Gerry showed none of it.

Maybe Michael should find it concerning. He wasn’t aware of any immunities. Even those serving one of the other powers tended to show some sort of reaction to his music. The only thing on Gerry’s face after Michael finished playing was a mixture of disbelief and admiration and maybe a couple other things. Mostly, it simply looked like he had enjoyed the concert in a perfectly normal way. Michael could have let it pass the first, second time. But after close to twenty performances Gerry witnessed without anything in his demeanour changing Michael couldn't help but pay more attention to Gerry Keay.

He seemed normal enough. Maybe a bit too unassuming, even, despite the tattooed eyes across his knuckles. He was always polite but didn't talk much if not talked to. His work was always finished on time and always good. He seemed to always go straight home from work and was never late. It could simply be that he was just like that, Michael didn't doubt the possibility. But something just didn't seem quite right. He knew how it looked when there was active effort to blend in, to hide something.

When Michael decided to approach Gerry after one of his shows it wasn’t necessarily with the intention of finding out what exactly it was. The pursuit of truths had never really appealed to him. But he was intrigued, in a general sense. Maybe it was Gerry not going anywhere, a certainty to his presence Michael was unused to. Michael generally didn't dare to get too attached to those working with him. They tended to spark, and burn, bright and brilliant, and quickly burn out, become victims to that which had given them an outlet for all pent-up frustration, anger, hatred and that pure violence people were so careful about hiding. Michael usually enjoyed observing it, loved watching them slowly, or quickly, get taken by the sanguine glory of the Slaughter. 

Watching Gerry, unchanging, surprisingly, wasn't too bad, either. He was curious.

It was awkward at first. Gerry clearly didn't know what to say or didn't want to chat, only humouring Michael as he started regularly coming up to Gerry to talk after the shows. He answered Michael’s questions carefully, considering every word and gesture, and kept his answers short and neutral. 

However he did seem to have a difficult time deciding whether he wanted to avoid looking at Michael at all cost or look at him intensely. It was amusing, and sometimes his tone suggested he might be flustered after he caught himself staring once more. It was an audible blush, if not a visible one. Gerry’s face always stayed pallid, no matter how warm the venues got or how much Michael caught him walking back and forth in the room for a good shot. 

Just another of those small things that didn't seem quite right about Gerry. It only spiked Michael’s curiosity, made him want to know Gerry better, discover more small details that didn't quite add up. He was an enigma and he was a constant and Michael was utterly fascinated with him.

"Do you want to maybe go for a drink?" Michael asked him occasionally, was already used to Gerry shaking his head as an answer.

"No, sorry, I don't really feel like it."

Tonight, Michael didn’t feel like giving up just yet. He could still hear the blood rushing in his ears from being on that stage, and he would at least try. "A walk?"

Gerry sighed. Michael was, in a way, as polite as he was insistent. Gerry had tried to keep him at a distance, as he did with everybody. But Michael simply kept coming back, still slightly out of breath, eyes shining with thrill, so alive it  _ ached _ to look at him and it was impossible to look away from. He was beautiful from up close, and his voice was so strange and so pretty and Gerry really should find a way to make him stop trying to engage because Gerry was feeling his resolve crumble. He didn’t want to push Michael away. And Michael clearly wasn’t having it anyway.

Gerry gave in, carefully. "Where to?"

The brief surprise that passed Michael’s face was nearly worth Gerry already regretting agreeing to it. He clearly hadn’t actually expected Gerry to agree. Gerry felt the corner of his mouth quirk up into a grin.

“Oh, I mean...do you want to help me carry the flowers home?” Gerry had never heard his voice so uncertain. It was somewhat endearing. "I live close by so I walked today."

Gerry raised an eyebrow, looked at the assortment of flowers that had been thrown at the stage, some bouquets Michael had gotten as a thanks from a couple people in the audience, those managing the venue. 

"You keep them all?" Gerry asked, surprised. He had seen Michael and sometimes some others gathering all of the flowers that would end up on stage but he had never considered that Michael would take them home.

"Of course. They're gifts." Michael gave a smile that looked a little conspiratory, like there was a joke somewhere in that answer Gerry couldn’t quite grasp.

Not that it mattered, not when Michael’s disarming smile was directed right at him. Gerry was aware of how dazed he sounded when he answered, "Okay, I’ll help."

Their walk was just as awkward as their conversations, but they themselves seemed a little more at ease outside the stuffy hall. The night was warm, promise of summer in the spring breeze. Michael breathed deeply, exhaled a sigh. Gerry had a small smile on his lips when he threw him a glance.

"Do you enjoy being out at night?" It was maybe a strange question, but it wasn’t like Michael had anything better to say. Gerry agreeing to this had thrown him off a little and now he felt strangely giddy. Hopeful?

Gerry looked at him from the corner of his eyes, streetlight turning them to honey for a moment, and shrugged. "I guess. It's quiet."

It was a thing of circumstance, his joy for the night air, but Gerry did remember being rather fond of the emptier streets at night even before he had to hide from the sun. They were escape, moments of freedom from home. He looked up at the grey night sky.

"Do you like quiet?" Michael asked after a short moment.

"I do. At least...this kind." It was soothing, a comfort. Gerry had spent many a night with nothing else for company as he tried to quench his hunger after turning. It was better now. He was used to it. The night was still lovely.

They fell into silence again for a while. It wasn’t necessarily awkward, but Gerry still felt a bit rude. He had agreed to this, but was still keeping his answers short. It was probably a good idea, but it didn’t feel right. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t been wondering about the fact that Michael seemed to exclusively play after nightfall.

“What about you?”

It was rare for Gerry to return a question, ask anything of his own. Michael looked at him, strangely excited. “If I like the quiet?”

“The night.”

“Ah…” Michael considered for a moment. It had simply happened that his life had shifted to take place mostly at night. It was convenient in many ways, and he didn’t mind spending most of the day asleep or laying in bed, watching the sunlight seep in through the window. It was fine. It was solitary. “It gets a little lonely sometimes, I guess.”

Gerry felt an ache at that, somewhere deep. The words, but also the slight melancholy tone both were too relatable, probably more than he would or even could admit. There was a certain isolation that came with living a nocturnal life, a solitude that was part of it just as much as the stars outside on clear nights. Gerry only made a noncommittal noise as an answer, not trusting himself to say anything.

The silence they walked in for the rest of the way did seem a little lighter, companionable. Gerry waited at the door as Michael put the flowers he was holding away and came for the bunch in Gerry’s arms. They parted on ‘good night’ and Gerry started on his own way home.

*

Michael started asking Gerry for a walk more or less regularly after his concerts. Gerry didn’t always accept, but it was becoming harder and harder to say no. He still felt like he should, but with every passing walk - now filled with comfortable chatter or amiable silence, or both - it was becoming more difficult to deny that he enjoyed Michael’s company. There was a certain comfort to him, like he understood Gerry on some sort of level. Gerry wasn’t used to feeling understood, and he knew that Michael didn’t  _ know _ enough, that he probably didn’t truly understand. Maybe it wasn’t even understanding, but accepting. 

Sometimes they would both simply walk in silence, through empty streets, and it felt nice to have somebody who didn’t push for conversation, who seemed just as familiar with the kind of melancholy the night sometimes brought as Gerry was. It was comfortable, and maybe Gerry didn’t pull away as quickly as he had the first time their hands had brushed on one of their walks. The touch was brief electricity, and part of him itched to take Michael’s hand properly, to feel his skin. He didn’t. But he didn’t pull away anymore when their fingers sometimes brushed, watched the slightly crooked smile on Michael’s lips that seemed to settle there whenever it happened, the flush in his cheeks. 

They had started to linger on Michael’s threshold a lot. It was ridiculous that Gerry kept bringing him to his door, especially when it included taking public transport, a cab. They didn’t talk about it. Gerry felt like he should stop doing it, but Michael was the sun Gerry could barely remember the feeling of and Gerry wanted to bask in his presence as much as he could. It was a need, a necessity, a pull in that crooked smile that never looked quite right, angle just a little harsh, something impatient and sharp in his grey eyes, no matter how friendly they looked, how soft. And oh, they looked so soft lately, when he smiled as Gerry talked.

“Do you want to come inside?” Michael asked one night, not knowing exactly why he had asked it. 

It had been on his mind a lot during those last weeks where they tended to spend nearly an hour, sometimes more, just chatting at his door. It felt odd, and despite it being late and the streets being empty, Michael felt strangely uncomfortable just standing and talking at the door like that. But he didn’t want to end it either, wanted to continue talking to Gerry, or maybe just enjoy his soothing presence in silence. 

He got so used to it by now. Michael had never gotten the chance to get this familiar with somebody. Some nights, he felt strangely empty after they parted ways. Like the loneliness he’d been aware of and accepted as his companion suddenly weighed heavier. It felt like such a day today, and Michael didn’t want this to end just yet.

Gerry looked surprised at the question. “Inside?”

Michael shrugged, took a step to the side so Gerry could walk in. “If you want to. Just so we don’t have to talk at the door, I mean.”

Gerry looked conflicted for so long Michael was about to tell him to forget about it when he nodded. Tentative, eyes uncertain, but he nodded. Gerry didn’t want to go home yet.

Michael’s lips pulled into a smile and he waved Gerry inside. Gerry hesitated for another moment before crossing the threshold. Michael closed the door behind him and then realised he didn’t really know what to do next. Gerry started taking off his leather coat - the same he had worn throughout spring, summer, and now as the nights were starting to cool again - and Michael decided to do the same. 

Gerry took his time to get out of his coat mostly because he was panicking. This was a bad idea and he  _ knew _ it was when he had agreed to it. But now he was inside and he couldn’t very well just step right back out. Or maybe he could, but Gerry didn’t want to. He wanted to stay with Michael a little longer, wanted to listen to his weird chuckles and watch his animated face as he spoke. Gerry was so fucking gone for him.

Michael was pulling his hair tie out of his hair when Gerry looked up again and it occurred to Gerry that he had never seen Michael in anything that wasn’t the low ponytail he wore to play, and he froze in some strange anticipatory excitement as he watched Michael’s slender fingers fiddle with the hair tie for a little longer. Michael shook his hair out after he was done, blond curls spilling over his back and shoulders, radiant gold where the light caught in them, honey ringlets here and there, and it all looked so  _ soft _ and when Michael looked up, a satisfied smile on his lips, Gerry forgot to breathe. It looked like a halo, wild curls framing his pretty face. There were still angles in his smile, and something like a threat in his eyes, and it was breathtaking and intense and Gerry spoke without thinking.

“Please kiss me,” he breathed, half a question, and over his lips before he could stop it, and Gerry knew, for a fact, that his face would have been on fire had that still been possible. He  _ felt _ warm, that strange memory of blood rushing to his face. 

Michael stared at him for one heartbeat, two, and Gerry stared back, a strange mixture of shock and awe on his face and, fuck, Michael  _ did _ want to kiss him. And so he closed the space, nearly flung himself at Gerry and crashed their lips together.

Michael's kiss was like a punch and Gerry stumbled back in surprise, and then there was a wall at his back and Michael’s fingers came to rest on his cheeks, gentle, a stark contrast to his lips, moving against Gerry’s with a sort of tender viciousness, knocking the breath out of Gerry’s lungs. It was like watching him play, that strange elegance of his movements, the underlying violence, that feeling of being overwhelmed, devoured by the notes, by his lips and Gerry’s hands were in his hair, to steady, to feel soft curls running between his fingers, and all of it was intoxicating and Gerry thought he might drown in this kiss, and he’d do so happily.

Michael pulled away after a moment for breath and Gerry remembered to do so, too. His mind was whirring with what had just happened and Gerry was dizzy with the realisation that he had just been kissed. He didn’t know, hadn’t counted how long it had been, hadn’t allowed himself to miss it. But he  _ had _ and he didn’t think anyone would ever kiss him again, kiss him _ like this _ , and Gerry was sure his face would have been red by the time the whole situation settled and Michael met his eyes with his, intense, thrilled, electric, like they were about to spark and burn, and Gerry held his breath.

Something caught Michael’s eye to his side, in the mirror hanging on the wall. Or maybe it was the absence of something, the fact that, once he looked, there was nothing in front of him in the mirror. He knit his brows, looked back at Gerry, still leaning against the wall right in front of him. Then back at the reflection that didn't show him. Michael didn't have the chance to voice the question on his mind since Gerry was hurrying out of the door before he could open his mouth to speak. He stared at the closed door after Gerry left, pieces clicking into place, all those small details that didn’t quite add up making sense now. Vampire.

Gerry rushed home, the cool night air doing little to dampen his rising panic. It had only been a question of time, he had  _ known _ . It’s why he tried to keep his distance, to not get too close from the beginning. But still he had, and he’d grown comfortable, and comfort made careless, reckless and now Gerry felt like he was choking despite knowing he couldn’t anymore. He couldn’t tell what the tears in his eyes were, frustration, sadness, fear. 

Memories flooded him, he couldn’t forget them, could never forget Mary’s face when he finally made it back home, drained, in more than one sense, shaking and so very afraid, feeling sharp and wrong and too quiet and the world felt so  _ different _ . He was half-delirious, didn’t know why he had come back, except he always did, of course, had nowhere else to go and he was  _ afraid _ . The disgust stung, and so did her words, but it wouldn’t take long for Gerry to find out that all of that paled once that brief, cruel flicker in her eyes would take on full shape.

He hadn’t let anyone else find out, had been careful feeding and laid low, kept his distance and now _ this _ . It had been stupid to believe he’d manage to keep his secret for long while being close and now Michael knew and Gerry felt cold, anxious, afraid. He still felt the faint tingling on his lips from the kiss, and Gerry realised he had never grabbed his coat on his way out when he was already close to his own flat. It didn’t matter. The fear was real and familiar and it settled in his bones. Gerry knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep that day.

*

The following days passed in a blur and torturously slowly at the same time as Gerry expected something to happen. He wasn’t sure  _ what _ . He kept checking his emails, his phone, expecting to at the very least get fired. It seemed absurd, the disappointment he felt at the thought. But Gerry had enjoyed this job, even before Michael had tried to talk to him. It had been fun, a good distraction, it had made him feel alive. Or maybe that had been Michael. Gerry wasn’t sure anymore. He buried his face in his pillow with a frustrated sigh.

When the email with address and time arrived, Gerry was surprised. There was nothing in it that suggested anything had changed, it looked exactly like the ones from before. It didn’t make  _ sense _ . Maybe Gerry was being paranoid, but this wasn’t right. This wasn’t how he had imagined, feared it would go and he didn’t trust it. He shouldn’t go, should quit.

Gerry couldn’t tell if it was his burning curiosity or something else that brought him into the same position he had been in months before, when he had first seen Michael perform. But he stood again in front of the door in the dark - a different door, probably different layout. He was a little early as usual, liked to figure out where to best take the pictures from - nerves eating at him. They had a different source now, tasted of the fear of this being a trap, somehow. Because how could it not be? Michael  _ knew _ . Even if he didn’t know exactly what - and by now he certainly did, it was easy to find out - he knew Gerry wasn’t human, was a monster. There was no way things would just be as before.

Gerry took a deep, unnecessary breath and stepped inside.

Michael was nowhere to be seen which was a relief, but also put Gerry even more on edge. It wasn’t uncommon. He often did his tuning and preparations in back rooms, if they were available. Gerry moved to set up, trying to act normal. It was both easier and more difficult to do so when the concert began.

Gerry avoided Michael at all cost after the concert, forced himself to snap out of his wonder at the performance, at how he now knew the feeling of those lips that smiled so strangely, had felt so good, so soft, against his own. Gerry wished he could stop thinking of it. He noticed Michael looking at him, a question, a request, and Gerry avoided his glance, moved to get ready and hurried out before Michael had the opportunity to approach him. 

He didn’t know what Michael wanted, was afraid of what that look had meant. It had felt good, calming, to act like nothing had happened. Gerry wanted to continue doing so, if Michael let him.

*

Michael had thought Gerry might need a couple days to calm down from the shock. He clearly hadn’t planned for Michael to find out and he had left in such a rush his coat had been left behind. So Michael gave him space, took his time to think about it himself. Gerry not being human explained a lot, so it hadn’t been much of a shock. Michael had been left a little confused by his quick departure, but had assumed it had simply been the shock, the unexpected reveal of his secret. Michael thought it would have settled by the next time they saw each other and they could go back to before, or maybe talk about it. So Gerry hurrying away the moment Michael tried to approach left him confused, maybe a little hurt.

Had he done something wrong? Gerry had left before he could say anything. Had there been something in his expression that had put Gerry off? Did he think Michael was bothered by him being a vampire? He didn’t. It didn’t matter much to him what Gerry was. Just that he was  _ Gerry _ .

In the following weeks, Michael attempted to talk to Gerry multiple times. It didn’t matter when he tried, before or after the performance, Gerry would avoid him, find an excuse and disappear. There was something frantic in it, and Michael didn’t quite understand. But Gerry seemed to be determined not to talk, so Michael stopped insisting after a while. He hated it. And he could see that Gerry wasn’t happy either. But neither did he seem to have changed his mind. He packed up and hurried out as quickly as he could and Michael felt an ache in his chest he couldn’t quite place.

He felt empty as he made his way home on his own. It shouldn’t have made such a difference. Michael had been alone for a long while before Gerry had been there. It shouldn’t be so hard to fall back into it. It was. Michael hated it. He missed the tentative brush of Gerry’s fingers against his as he walked, missed hearing his voice, that gentle tone it had taken on once he opened up a little. Michael felt cold.

*

Gerry stood in front of the door to the backroom and considered to simply leave. He had agreed to go in, abscent-mindedly, without really listening to what he was being asked to do. His mind was all over the place lately. Even after the anxiety of something happening settled since everything seemed to continue as before, he still couldn’t focus. Because it  _ wasn’t _ like before. Before, Gerry had looked forward to talking to Michael after the concerts, had enjoyed his company as he walked him home. Michael had become familiar and now Gerry felt his absence keenly. 

He had stopped trying to talk to him, at least for the most part. Occasionally, Gerry still saw him approach and that choking panic set in again, and he basically ran. He was ashamed of it, it felt silly. But he couldn’t imagine what Michael wanted to say, what anyone would want to say to Gerry after finding out. Well, that wasn’t quite true. Mary had left him with many examples of things one might want to tell him. It terrified Gerry, the idea of hearing such things from Michael’s lips. It didn’t seem likely, but Gerry couldn’t imagine anything else. And he was too afraid to risk it.

So no, he didn’t want to go inside. Apparently Michael had called for him. Gerry hadn’t even recognised the person who told him, but he had walked to the door to the backroom nonetheless. And before he could change his mind, his hand was on the door and he opened it, stepped inside. 

It was a small, cramped room but Gerry didn’t get to take much of it in because his eyes immediately fell on Michael. It wasn’t a surprise, the couch he was sitting on was exactly opposite to the door. And of course, even off stage Michael tended to be impossible to not look at. Or at least that was the case for Gerry. 

He froze at the sight. Michael’s lips and chin were stained red, some vibrant splatters of it on his cheeks, his fingers covered in it, too. His lips were pulled into a lazy grin, sharp as usual, eyes piercing, despite his relaxed posture, the loose, disheveled hair, some strands stained red where they were stuck to his lips. Gerry had already taken a step back by the time his eyes fell on the plate with the remnants of what looked to be a pomegranate. It still took him too long to put the pieces together, for the shock to settle enough for Gerry to realise the room did not smell of blood.

"Gerry," Michael sounded surprised and delighted, happy, even, and Gerry wanted to walk towards him, curl up in his arms, kiss his lips. Instead, he tensed. "I wanted to ask if you want some fruit? They gave me quite a bit." He nodded towards the fruit bowl on the table to the side. He caught Gerry’s eyes before asking, voice curious, "Can you eat normal food?"

"I don't know what youre talking about." It was an automatism, words spilling out of Gerry’s mouth too quickly as that familiar panic set it, solidified. Michael knew. Of course he knew, but now he made it clear he did.

Michael sighed, brushed his hair behind his ear, smeared more red - pomegranate juice, Gerry reminded himself - on his cheek, into his hair. Gerry’s eyes lingered on it, still confused by the sight. 

Michael snapped him out of it when he spoke, "Gerry, all I've been wanting to tell you is that it's okay."

He didn’t specify, and he didn't need to, not when his eyes were boring straight into Gerry’s soul, making him wonder, for a brief moment, if this was a threat rather than a reassurance. Not that it mattered. Gerry shook his head.

"You don't know what youre talking about."

He didn't because if he did he wouldn't be saying this. And it hurt to hear those words and know they weren't true, even if Michael believed they were. Gerry felt the sting of tears and shook his head before hurrying out of the room again.

Michael considered following him. He had wondered if maybe he should have followed him in the first place, after the kiss. Would it have made a difference? He doubted it. Michael stayed on the couch, staring at the door.

Michael decided to not bother him any further after that. He hated it, hated that apparently he had guessed right as to the origin of the problem, but Gerry clearly didn’t want to talk about it. He had made it more than clear, and Michael didn’t want to be pushy. Part of him hoped Gerry just needed some time to consider what he had said, maybe, warm up to the idea of letting Michael explain, if needed. But it wasn’t likely, not with how Gerry seemed to avoid him even more now. 

Michael finally remembered to bring Gerry’s coat to one of the performances - he kept forgetting, and maybe also still had been holding on to the hope that Gerry might come back one day and pick it up himself - and he left it next to Gerry’s things. As now usual, Gerry was as far away from him as he could get inside the hall and in a strange way Michael felt like this was giving up. He grit his teeth, and moved to the stage.

*

Gerry couldn’t stop thinking of it. Even after that night, even after he had gotten home and his mind had stopped spinning, he couldn’t stop thinking of it.  _ All I've been wanting to tell you is that it's okay _ . It was the last thing Gerry had imagined hearing. Michael had no idea. He didn’t know, couldn’t know. Could he? No. No, because if Michael had really thought it through, if he  _ knew _ , he wouldn’t have said that, wouldn’t have said Gerry’s name with that same warm tone. It didn’t make sense, and Gerry was well aware of it and he hated himself, hated the part of himself that was so ready, so desperate to believe those words. The part of himself that was urging him to go and wrap his arms around Michael and pretend like everything was fine. Gerry wanted things to be fine so bad. They hadn’t been in so long.

But he couldn’t. He didn’t know if Michael was lying or whether he thought it was the truth, but neither option was one Gerry wanted to watch crumble as they got close again. It was too much and he was too confused, too afraid to dare and challenge what Michael had said upfront. 

No, this was better. For both of them. Maybe if Michael really did think he was saying the truth it meant Gerry at least wouldn’t be a horrible memory down the line. If he kept his distance, they could both pretend.

Gerry wanted to thank Michael for bringing him his coat. He didn’t.

*

The concert was as exhilarating as usual and Gerry was trying very hard to take pictures without looking properly, because then he would get lost in Michael’s strange brutal, yet gentle expression and his mind would wander, again, to the feeling of his lips and the warmth of his fingers against Gerry’s cheeks, Michael’s soft hair beneath his fingers. 

He was doing it again and Gerry grit his teeth and tightened his grip on his camera. He needed to stop thinking about it. 

Before Gerry could raise his camera again there was a strange, high-pitched noise, and Michael whipped his head to the side, movement of the bow not interrupted, but stuttering for one, two moments, before he looked back at the audience with his usual knife’s edge of a smile, as charming as it was threatening, and the music continued.

Gerry smelled it before he saw it. There was an angry red line down Michael’s cheek where the snapping string - the strange noise - had cut through skin. Gerry felt like it shouldn’t be a surprise, like it was bound to happen with how violently he played, with how much force there seemed to be behind the elegant movements of the bow. And still, he stood frozen, shocked,  _ hungry _ . 

Gerry’s eyes were fixed on the cut, the red droplets of blood running down Michael’s cheek, his jaw. It looked so vibrant under the stage lights, blinding, as Michael did, and Gerry felt overwhelmed. It was too much, and he bit the inside of his cheek in a vain attempt to get himself to focus. It hadn’t been too long since he last fed but he had been starting to feel that strange emptiness in his veins again, the sign that he probably should go out again tomorrow. 

But now all he could smell was that brilliant red running down Michael’s pale cheek as he continued playing, and Gerry’s head, his everything, was filled with music and blood and he wanted to run before he did something stupid, but he couldn’t. Not with Michael somehow still making the notes sound impossible to deny even with a missing string, not with him moving as he played like there wasn’t blood running down his cheek, ferocious and impossible to look away from, a sweet grace to the brutality of each step, each movement, and the light kept catching in the blood on his cheek and Gerry wondered if anyone else in the room thought it was hypnotising, divine, or if it was just him feeling his knees tremble with too much of everything, and a gaping lack of what he wanted right then and there. 

Gerry wasn’t even sure what that would be. He stared, rapt, as Michael carried on, eyes following the small stream of blood on his cheek through every movement until Michael caught his eyes. It had never happened before. Michael would sometimes throw him glances as he played, as he would at many in the audience, a quick reminder that attention should be with him, an aftertaste of threat to it. But now he was holding Gerry’s eyes for a lot longer and more obviously than usual and the grin on his lips seemed more private, one specifically for Gerry, amused and harsh, an inside joke, teasing or taunting, a bit of both. 

Gerry grit his teeth and as Michael looked away again he felt the urge to run up the stage and punch him, kiss him, drink him. Part of him thought that was probably what Michael wanted, that that look had been a challenge, a dare, and Gerry forced himself to calm down and stay in his place. His hands were shaking as he brought the camera up again, but he didn’t care. He needed to distract himself from blood and eyes that kept piercing right through him.

*

Michael watched Gerry’s intensely focused eyes as he tried to clean the blood off with a tissue, hands shaking, touch barely there, feather-light. Clearly not enough to clean any blood off. He was starting to look frustrated. Michael hadn’t asked Gerry to do this, hadn’t even bothered to try and approach him when they were the only ones left. Gerry seemed to be having trouble packing his things with how badly his hands were shaking, so he hadn’t disappeared right away as had become custom.

As Michael was getting into his coat Gerry had suddenly approached, determination and anger doing little to hide the hunger in his eyes, and had forced Michael into one of the chairs to clean off the blood. He had been stubborn about it, mumbling about night not being the time to walk around with blood on your face. Michael was, frankly, so surprised at the sudden initiation of conversation, of contact, that he sat frozen for a good moment. After weeks of Gerry avoiding him so insistently, Michael was shocked at having him so very close again. He’d like him closer, the memory of their kiss still vivid in Michael’s mind.

Michael grinned up at Gerry, now, playful. "If it's easier for you just lick it off."

Gerry's brows furrowed. "Don't joke."

"I'm not." Michael sighed. At least it didn’t seem like Gerry would be running this time, so Michael decided to try again, "You know I don't mind, right? It doesn't matter. You're still you."

"I could kill you."

Michael looked into his eyes, nearly black in the darkness left once the stage lights went out. Somehow, they still seemed to glimmer slightly. "So could everyone who was sitting in this hall, Gerry."

Gerry returned his gaze. The serious expression on his face didn't suit him. Michael missed the playful grins from weeks before, the ease with which they’d talk on their walks. Now, Gerry just kept frowning, mouth a tight line.

Gerry stopped, took a steadying, shaky breath. "I'm not even human, Michael."

Michael knew, of course. Still Gerry felt so strangely  _ exposed _ voicing it. It wasn’t something he had heard in a very long time, and while, in his voice, it didn’t feel like a slap in the face he still felt that tightness, his veins turning to ice at the words.  _ You’re a monster _ , she had always said and Gerry  _ knew _ but it still  _ hurt _ .

Michael raised an eyebrow, lips pulling into a grin, more of a show of teeth. There was violence in his eyes, the same kind of expression Gerry would glimpse when he opened his eyes playing, the same wild eyes Gerry had photographed many a time right after a concert. Sometimes before, when it was mingled with anticipation, making Gerry's spine tingle. As it was doing now, when their faces were so close for the first time in weeks and Michael was looking at him like he'd like to break something, like the blood on his cheek was just the beginning.

"What makes you so sure, my dear, that I'm human? Have you not heard the rumours of my devilish fingerwork?" Michael wiggled his fingers with a snicker, something hard and sharp despite the amusement in his eyes.

Gerry had. There were all sorts of rumours about Michael Shelley, who only played at night, always practically unannounced, and stories of listeners gone mad after a concert, violent deaths and gruesome murders. It had been one of the reasons Gerry had taken the job. The part about only having to work at night was ideal. And maybe he had been a little curious about the rumours. Maybe a little taken by the pictures he had seen of Michael, curious how close they were to reality. 

They were but a shadow of the real thing, he had quickly learned and Gerry hadn’t given much thought to the rumours in the past months. He had been too focused thinking about Michael himself. The strange softness in his cutting gaze, the cruel line of his grin that was just as enticing, the blood-flushed cheeks and the rise and fall of his chest after he stopped playing, so alive and intense, the brutal elegance in his every movement, the vicious dance of his fingers over strings, those same fingers, gentle, so very gentle, as they held Gerry’s face, as they brushed against his fingers, as they tugged a blond curl behind his ear as he talked. That vibrant hair, like polished gold, sharp and cold, like honey, smooth, soft,  _ so soft _ . 

It was in everything Michael did, the way he carried himself, the way he was just sitting there and blinking up at Gerry in the dim light of the lamp that had turned itself on at some point, illuminating Michael’s sweat-slick face, dancing on his pale lashes, his eyebrows, making the blood oh his cheek, darker now, shine.

Gerry traced the cut gently, without really touching skin. It was starting to stop bleeding, leaving behind a drying trickle of blood down Michael’s cheek, his jaw. It still smelled delicious, as unbearable as Michael’s beauty was, could be, and Gerry wanted it, craved it, Michael, his blood, all of it. 

"You really don't mind?" he whispered and he barely recognised the tremor in his voice, the hunger, the reverence. 

"No." Michael caught his eyes again, making sure he understood. Then he smiled, cheeky. "The blood's already spilled, I have no use for it."

Gerry rolled his eyes, tilted Michael’s head to the side, just a little. Michael held still as he watched Gerry lean down, face coming close. There was thrill, anticipation and longing and hope and Michael held his breath, didn’t want to interrupt the moment, wanted Gerry’s face close again, wanted to feel his lips, touch his face.

Gerry's lips brushed his face, a kiss to the small spot still bleeding, fleeting as he pulled away immediately. Michael’s brows knit as he watched Gerry straighten up again, watched him lick the small stain of blood from his lips.

"That...wasn't what I expected."

"I'm not licking the blood off your face, you moron." Gerry grinned, though his eyes were a little too wide, voice breathy as he brought the handkerchief back to Michael’s cheek. He caught himself, closed his eyes for a moment before mumbling, "At least buy me a drink first or something."

Michael grinned. "Technically, I just offered you one."

"You know what I mean." Gerry mumbled after a moment, flustered and brows knit. The dried blood wouldn't come off. He was hungry, and the faint taste of Michael’s blood was still on his tongue from where Gerry had licked it from his lips. He lowered his hand with a defeated sigh, took a step back. "You'll have to wash your face.”

Michael looked at him, searching, distrust in his eyes. He didn’t want this to end, didn’t want Gerry to go back to running away from him. This was the most they had talked in weeks, the closest they had been to each other, and Michael realised how much he had missed it, fought the urge to pull him back even now, when Gerry was standing right there. He didn’t want to go and come back to an empty hall.

There was a small smile on Gerry’s lips when he held out his hand and added. “I'll wait for you."

Michael took the offered hand, pulled himself up from the chair. He didn’t let go, had missed the fleeting brush of Gerry’s hand against his own too much. "May I kiss you?"

Gerry looked surprised, then shook his head. “I need some air. And you need to wash that blood off.” The disappointment in Michael’s eyes was clear, but he let go of Gerry’s hand. Gerry gave a tentative smile. “We’ll see after.”

Michael nodded. "Alright, I'll hurry up."

Michael emerged from the building a couple minutes later. He found Gerry leaning by the door, breathing in the night air. He looked calmer now, and Michael gave him a smile, curious.

“Do you even need to breathe?”

Gerry looked up at him, hesitated for a moment. There seemed to be a bit of nervousness in his movement as he shook his head. “No. I just...do it. So people don’t...notice.”

Michael nodded, decided to change the topic - Gerry was clearly uncomfortable with the one at hand. “You waited.”

He sounded mildly surprised, and the edge of his smile softened a little as he said it. I was a beautiful sight.

“I said I would.” A short moment of silence before Gerry touched Michael’s cheek, the tip of his fingers brushing over the healing cut, light as a feather, as he whispered, “How’s your face?”

“Barely feeling it.” Michael mumbled, tilting his head to lean into the touch. “Accompany me home?”

The hopeful tone of the question made Gerry smile, endeared. He nodded. 

They walked in silence, both unsure what to say. It wasn’t necessarily awkward, Gerry simply had a lot to process. Of all the possible outcomes he had imagined this one had never occurred to him. It was wild. Gerry still didn’t quite trust it, wondered if Michael meant it. But then again, it wasn’t like Michael was wrong about the rumours. Michael had always been an odd one, ever since Gerry first met him, a certain barely-retained violence just under that dashing smile and pleasant chatter. Gerry had been too busy falling in love with all of it to realise that it had an strange flavour to it, maybe not inhuman, but slightly to the left of it. 

It was thrilling, whatever it was that was Michael, and it was still Michael, whose laughter was always followed by a content sigh and who always showed his teeth when he smiled, gap in the front adorable, smile overall blinding, overshadowing that glimmer of threat that would sometimes pass his eyes as he smiled. It was all Michael, even if he turned out to not be quite human, and Gerry loved him. And if Michael was being honest, knew what he was talking about...maybe it could work out. Maybe. Gerry wasn’t getting his hopes up, didn’t dare. It was all nice in theory but it didn’t mean that Michael wouldn’t change his mind down the line. Gerry looked at Michael, now walking silently beside him.

He looked happy, the way he always did after a concert, a smile so wide it nearly looked manic. Though it had mellowed by now, something more like contentment on his features. The cut was still red, stark against his fair skin, but at least it wasn’t bleeding, skin already mending. Maybe a little too quickly, Gerry thought. 

“Are you cold?” He asked, because Michael’s cheeks were flushed, and it probably wasn’t the remaining high from his performance, not anymore.

Michael looked at him, grinned. “Why, are you going to offer me your coat?”

Gerry laughed. “My hand is all you get, if you want it. Maybe my scarf, I don’t really need it.”

“I’ll take the hand.” Michael held out his hand, fingers red and the tips still slightly dented from the strings. Gerry wanted to smooth them with his fingers, kiss them better. He simply wrapped them in his hand for now, pushing the other options to the side. So much for not getting his hopes up, he guessed. 

Michael made a content noise, a hum, maybe, and squeezed Gerry’s hand gently. It wasn’t warm, but it was a comfort still, and Michael felt warmer. 

Gerry still wondered at the gentleness, the softness he displayed sometimes. It felt...strange, an edge to it that made the hairs at the back of Gerry’s neck stand up, as if anticipating, though he didn’t know what. But he didn’t dislike it.

They reached the house eventually, still silent, but with less of an awkward flavour to it. It had been a nice walk. The night air had cleared Gerry’s head from the bloodrush earlier. He felt good.

Michael had to let go of Gerry’s hand to open the door, face a mask of disapproval at that, and Gerry huffed out a laugh. The door was open but Michael turned towards Gerry instead.

“Do you want to come in?”

Gerry thought that maybe he shouldn’t, that they should both sleep over what had happened tonight. But he wanted to, and his smile was shy when he answered, “If you’ll have me.”

Michael nodded, grin wide, and stepped to the side. “Come in.”

Gerry did, crossing the threshold for the second time after weeks of telling himself it had been a mistake to do so the first time. But he felt light, tonight, and Michael was vibrant beside him, and he smiled as he stepped inside. The door closed behind him and they both looked at each other in silence.

It was Michael who interrupted it, “So, about that drink-”

“Michael…” Gerry sighed, exhausted. “Why are you so eager to spill some of your own blood?”

Michael laughed. “Generally, it’s just blood. I will make more. But I was actually thinking of a glass of wine, if you want? I have seen you drink water before, so I assume you can still drink things that aren’t blood?”

“Oh.” Gerry was only a little embarrassed, ran a hand through his hair. “Sure. Sounds good.”

They moved to Michael’s couch with their glasses, sat apart. Michael leaned back with a sigh, closed his eyes for a moment. Gerry tried not to think too much about the curve of his neck, his throat, eyes instead fixed on the pale eyelashes, nearly see-through in the light, pretty, soft. There was so much of Michael that Gerry could not describe any other way but soft, no matter how aware he was it wasn’t the truth, no matter how much he picked up on the slaughter in the curve of his grin, the glimmer of violence in his eyes. 

Michael’s hair was still soft, his lashes, the freckles on his round face, his skin - despite his fingers being calloused from playing, they were still also inexplicably soft - his lips. Gerry couldn’t stop thinking of them, of that kiss. He sipped his wine to distract himself, finding it impossible to move his eyes away from Michael. So it wasn’t only his playing that did that.

There was a grin on Michael’s lips when he opened his eyes again that made Gerry think his gawking hadn’t gone unnoticed, and Gerry sipped his wine with more focus, grateful, once again, of his inability to blush. But he knew the flusteredness was probably still clear on his face, in his eyes. 

Michael finally brought his own glass to his lips and Gerry found himself transfixed by the red against his lips, how pale he looked against it. Memories of that night with the pomegranate were suddenly back at the forefront of Gerry’s mind, and it didn’t help when a dark red droplet of wine escaped, ran down the side of Michael’s mouth, down his chin, following the curve of his jaw. It looked like blood, yes, but more than anything Gerry wanted to follow that path with his fingers, kiss that drop away, feel Michael’s warm skin under his lips. He clenched his own glass a little tighter, lowered his eyes again.

“You have something...there…” Gerry gestured without looking up.

“Oh.” Michael wiped his face with the back of his hand. 

They finished their wine in comfortable silence, but there was still an edge to it, the knowledge that things weren’t really talked through heavy.

“Gerry?”

“What?”

“Are you hungry?”

Gerry sighed, tension back in his shoulders as he sat up straighter. “Michael, again-”

“You asked why I’m so eager.”

Gerry looked at him, knit his brows. “It’s a valid question.”

Michael held his gaze with uncharacteristic seriousness. “I’m not. I just want you to understand that I really don’t mind. I don’t want you to feel hungry or like you have to hide yourself from me.”

It was sweet, the sentiment, but Gerry’s smile had a sad note to it as he spoke, “How are you so sure you don’t mind, Michael?”

Michael made a contemplative hum, furrowed thin eyebrows. “Well, you could say I’ve probably seen worse. Done worse, even.” He shrugged. “I just don’t see why it would make a difference, Gerry. You’re still you, no matter what you eat. Or drink, I guess.”

Gerry raised an eyebrow at the casualty with which Michael was willing to admit to what he could only assume were crimes. It wasn’t even the first time he alluded to something like it. Gerry remembered vague comments about murder in chipper tone that made Gerry brush them off without thinking too deeply about it. 

Gerry knew this was an offer to leave. It would probably be the right thing to do, a sound decision to make. Gerry knew he wouldn’t. It fascinated him, drew him towards Michael just as much as that underlying sense of danger, of violence had all this time. It was exhilarating.

Michael watched the analysing gaze, watched Gerry’s brows furrow and unfurrow as he thought. It looked cute, if he was to be honest, and Michael smiled, waited for Gerry to come to some kind of conclusion, to get up and leave, to stay and ask or, maybe to stay and keep silent. Gerry seemed to be reaching that point, face back to its neutral expression, but Michael didn’t have the patience to wait for him to speak up first.

“So?”

“Would you tell me if I asked what exactly you mean with ‘done worse’?”

“I can show you, even, if you want.” That grin, murderous, and Gerry wondered, for the briefest moment, if he was in danger. But Michael’s eyes were playful, a challenge. Gerry might take him up on it, but not tonight.

Instead, he grinned. “I think I’d rather take a kiss.”

Michael’s eyes lit up, and it looked nearly inhuman, just for a moment, the way the light caught in stormy grey, and then Michael’s lips crashed into Gerry’s and banished every thought still lingering. It was just as intense the first time, like a blow, and Gerry felt breathless, overwhelmed in the best way at the ferocity of Michael’s kiss, like thunder, a crashing wave, blocking out everything else. Gerry felt like he was floating, swept off his feet and he would have laughed at the lightness he was feeling had he not been kissing back. 

Michael’s fingers were on his face again, then raking through his hair, delicately, and Gerry wrapped his arms around him, pulled him closer, kissed him back, maybe a little desperate, but fuck, Gerry had wanted this so much, had been dreaming of that short, viciously sweet kiss so much, trying to memorize how it made him feel, how it had  _ felt _ , and now he was experiencing it again and it was bliss.

Michael swiped his tongue over Gerry’s lip, and Gerry brought his hands to his face, and pulled away, just a little. It took a moment for him to find his words. “Wait. Fangs. Be careful.”

“Are they always...there? I never noticed.” It wasn’t quite true. He had noticed that Gerry’s canines were a little long, but it still looked like human teeth. It looked cute when he laughed.

Gerry found himself distracted by the movement of Michael’s lips, wanted them against his again. The words did register after a short moment of delay.

“Oh...well, they do get longer. When I’m about to feed.” He frowned, finding it strange to be talking about this. Gerry had been sure he would never tell anyone what he was, much less go into detail. He swallowed, feeling somewhat awkward. “But...they’re always a bit sharp.”

He had cut his tongue plenty in the beginning, so Gerry knew what he was talking about. Michael, if anything, only looked more intrigued. It made something like terror cross Gerry’s expression, and Michael decided to settle for a small grin instead.

“Fine, I don’t mind keeping to your lips.” He sucked in Gerry’s bottom lip, making him gasp as he felt Michael’s teeth graze soft skin. Gerry’s grip tightened on the back of Michael’s shirt and Michael let go of his lip again to speak, “That okay?”

Gerry nodded, dazed, and brought their mouths together, eager to lose himself in the kiss again, one hand moving up Michael’s back to bury in his hair. Michael did keep to his lips, kissed and licked and bit, fierce without being brutal, and Gerry melted into it, kissed him back, tilted his head to deepen the kiss. Michael’s hands had worked through the top buttons of Gerry’s shirt, and Gerry could feel calloused fingers tracing his collarbone, and he shivered, sighed against Michael’s lips. 

And then Gerry tasted blood in his mouth and froze, pulled away from Michael, too quickly, like pulling away from a too-hot surface. Michael let him, put some distance between them himself. There was blood on his tongue from where Gerry’s lip had cracked under Michael’s kiss. Maybe Michael had gotten a little carried away. 

He looked up at Gerry with sharp, but worried eyes. “Sorry, was that too much…?”

Gerry only understood then that the blood was his own. He blinked, confused, tentatively licked the blood off his lip. It was fine. The hunger didn’t hit him, overwhelming, as it had before, when he had tasted Michael’s. He was fine.

He chuckled at the absurdity of tasting his own blood because of somebody else. There was something thrilling about it, a novelty that excited him, especially when he looked up at Michael, who now looked more uncertain than worried, but was still keeping his distance. His lips were red with Gerry’s blood and red looked so good on him. He brought his hand to Michael’s face, gently traced his upper lip with his thumb, succeeding more in smearing the blood rather than brushing it away. Which was fine. Michael still looked divine and Gerry still wanted to kiss him.

“No, sorry. I was just...surprised. You’re good.” He pressed his lips to Michael’s, mumbling, “Very good.” 

And Michael was kissing him back, gentle at first, soon Gerry was being kissed senseless into the couch again. Gerry remembered through the haze of the kiss and the blood in his mouth, that  _ he _ did have plenty of practice in avoiding his fangs, and so he slipped his tongue through Michael’s parted lips, mapped out his mouth until Michael’s tongue slid against his, wrapped around it, a dance, just shy of harsh.

They pulled apart after a while, Michael panting, and Gerry feeling exquisitely dizzy. Michael’s cheeks were flushed a bright red, matching his lips and it was beautiful. Gerry touched his cheek, gently.

“Red looks so good on you,” Gerry mumbled.

Michael chuckled, let himself fall back against the backrest of the couch. “Oh, you should see yourself.”

“Why?”

Michael’s eyes widened. “How long have you been a vampire?”

Gerry flinched internally at the word, at the casual tone with which Michael said it. It threw him off for a moment, and he nearly forgot to answer the question.

“I...I’m not sure, to be honest,” he mumbled.

The years after turning had passed in a blur of guilt, shame and pain, and after Mary was gone and he was free it felt like a lifetime had passed and at the same time it felt like no time had passed at all. Dates were hazy, Gerry didn’t know how long he had been hunting for her when they took him. But he knew it had been a while now, though he was unsure what it mattered in the current conversation.

“Do you show up in pictures? Do you...remember your face?” He watched Gerry with a strange kind of sadness, and Gerry was impressed by how even that seemed to have a cutting edge to it, like it might slice skin if Gerry dared to share too much.

"I don't, no. And...my face is getting a little hazy, I guess. But...broadly, I think I do?" He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't spend too much time looking at myself while I still could, to be honest."

He hadn't wanted to. Even when there weren't any bruises, cuts, wounds, Mary's marks were still there. In the shape of his nose, the roots Gerry couldn't keep up with very well with how busy she kept him. They would always be glaring if he looked for too long, and so Gerry hadn't. And now he only vaguely remembered how he looked, found himself wondering, sometimes, if his face had changed. His hair - as far as he could tell - was still as black and as long as it had been when he was turned. Maybe he looked exactly as he had. Gerry was unsure if he would be able to tell by now, even if he could see it.

"Oh…" Michael’s brows were drawn together, and he looked genuinely upset.

Gerry shrugged. "It's not so bad."

It wasn't, really. Just a matter of getting used to it and not letting the feeling of loss settle too deeply, pull you under. It was simply one of the pieces he lost that night, a bit of his humanity, his identity. But the scar was old and there was a hollow space where he used to agonise about it. 

"No, it is. You're beautiful, Gerry, and you can't even see it.” Michael’s eyes wandered over Gerry’s face, slowly but with urgency, like he was trying to figure out how to put words to what he was seeing, find some place to start. Because he was. Because while Michael loved his face, had missed looking at it he didn't know how to describe it, how to properly translate what he felt looking into Gerry’s dark eyes, at the pale speckle of freckles on his beautiful crooked nose that looked like they should be kissed, the curve of his lips, inviting, breathtaking when smiling, and Michael just wanted to kiss them, kiss every inch of his face, every mole and every freckle and the scar in his left eyebrow and the one on his chin, and everything in-between and beyond. 

He had been tracing his eyes' path with his fingers already, softly, and now he leaned in and pressed his lips to the mole under Gerry’s right eye, watched his long, thick lashes flutter at that and, oh, he should mention those, too, and they were as good of a place to start as any so Michael tried to tell him how delightful it was to watch light catch in his lashes and throw shadows on his pretty cheeks. Then he pressed his lips to Gerry’s cheek before talking about the warmth in his eyes, the comfort Michael felt looking into their beautiful shade of brown, and Gerry let him kiss his eyelids, before Michael moved on to the next spot, the next detail, with his whispered praise and his kisses, making sure Gerry understood, or at least hoping he would. The words didn't quite sound like enough, in Michael’s opinion, but he still tried.

There was something strange in his tone that made the compliments sound more like a threat, like a freshly sharpened knife tantalisingly close to Gerry’s throat, ready to cut any moment. But his eyes were soft, his expression sweet and affectionate and enamoured and the words still seemed honest, still rang true despite the off-putting tone, despite them being delivered on a cutting board, about to be sliced with violent precision. It was strange, and part of Gerry wanted to run, part of him wanted to laugh, and all of him wanted to kiss Michael again, so he swung himself into Michael’s lap when Michael pulled away again, and kissed his breath away. 

They pulled apart again, but Michael kept him in a hug as he caught his breath. Gerry let his head rest against Michael’s shoulder with a grin, listened to Michael’s slowly calming breathing, and put one hand on his chest to feel the quickened heartbeat. Gerry missed it in himself, the obvious signs of life. He sighed, pressed a kiss to Michael’s neck, felt his pulse under his lips. It was exhilarating, to be so close, to have Michael so very alive right against him. Gerry felt a little drunk.

"My offer still stands." Michael mumbled.

Gerry took a moment to realise what he meant, then chuckled. "I'll keep it in mind. But not now."

"Fine." He rested his head on Gerry’s. "Will you stay the night...or rather, day?"

Gerry looked up at Michael’s face, cheeks flushed a dark red, quickly fading into something more gentle. He smiled.

"Depends on what you mean. I’m ace."

Michael looked at him, raised an eyebrow with a small grin. "So am I. Offer includes a bed to sleep in." He raked one hand through Gerry’s hair. "Unless you need a coffin. Don't have one, but we could maybe put you in the closet, might be a similar enough vibe."

Gerry laughed at that and Michael was yet again reminded of how much he had missed Gerry chuckle and laugh in those last weeks. He wasn't even sure if he had ever heard him properly laugh before. It was a lovely sound.

Gerry sat up again, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Spent enough time in the closet while alive. Bed sounds great."

Michael smiled up at him. "Alright."

They stayed on the couch for a little longer, too comfortable to move, both not wanting the foreign feeling of being close to disappear quite yet. It was bliss.

They did eventually move to bed and it was strange to have somebody else in it after so long. For both of them. It took them a moment to get comfortable, and then another moment to scratch that arrangement that had each on their side, barely touching, and instead meet in the middle in a tangle of limbs and an exchange of some lazy, sloppy kisses before Gerry’s head was hidden in the crook of Michael’s neck and Michael’s eyes were already fluttering close. 

They did not wake up in that position, or even an approximation of such. Gerry had been vaguely aware of Michael shifting beside him as they slept, he had never had a particularly deep sleep, but still, he was a little surprised to wake up to most of Michael’s weight on his chest. Apparently he had decided to curl up on there throughout the night, probably after he somehow managed to kick the sheets to the floor and have his own pillow end up at the foot of the bed so now his face was pressed into Gerry’s pillow, beside Gerry’s neck. The position felt like a strange, awkward embrace and Michael was heavy as he lay across Gerry’s chest, but it wasn’t too bad. It wasn't like he needed to breathe and Michael was warm, weight a comfort. 

Gerry  _ was _ a little bothered by Michael’s hair tickling his face, brushed it away carefully. Michael didn’t stir, and Gerry continued to play with his curls, soft between his fingers. Michael’s head shifted to the side, and Gerry felt his breath ticklick his neck now, and sighed, a smile tugging at his lips. This was nice. Gerry could get used to it. He knew he shouldn’t, didn’t think it would last. But maybe he could allow himself to enjoy it while it did.

“Good night…” Michael’s voice sounded a little raspy with sleep.

Gerry had to grin. “Good night.”

Michael buried his nose in Gerry’s shoulder with a sigh. “I’m cold.”

A chuckle escaped Gerry’s lips. “That’s probably because you kicked all the blankets to the floor. And I have no body heat to make up for that.”

“This is still good,” Michael mumbled, pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

Gerry ran his fingers through Michael’s hair. “You could have both.” 

“That would require me to get up, which I’m not ready for yet.” 

Gerry chuckled and wrapped his arms around him. “Well, I don’t mind this.”

Michael looked up at him with a smile. “Good.”

They stayed like that for a while, and Michael grew aware of the rise and fall of Gerry’s chest, mostly because he remembered it being still when he stirred awake. 

He looked up at Gerry again. "You don't have to pretend around me, you know. If...if you don't want to."

"Hm?"

"You're breathing," Michael clarified.

"Ah...yes, it's…I do it automatically by now.” Gerry brushed his hair back from his face with a sigh. “Many years doing so, it became a habit."

"Okay.” Michael nodded. “I just wanted you to know I don't mind."

"Mhm, okay." 

Gerry’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but Michael didn’t want to push him further. "Do you want breakfast? Or dinner, i guess."

Gerry heard the playfulness in his tone, and a grin pulled at his lips, matching the one on Michael’s lips. "Yes.” Michael’s face lit up for a moment and Gerry rolled his eyes, added, “I should leave soon."

Michael’s face fell, disappointment clear in his eyes. "Oh…" He sighed, rolled off of Gerry and sat up, stretched himself. He looked back at Gerry and gently brushed some stray strands of hair behind his ear. "Fine. Will you stay for my breakfast? I...can offer you some, if you can eat it."

Gerry leaned into the touch with a sigh. "I can, but it's not necessary.” He took Michael’s hand and squeezed it, looked into his eyes. “Do you want me to stay?"

"Yes." His smile was uncharacteristically soft, shy as he continued, "I enjoy your company."

Gerry felt stunned for a moment, by the smile, by the words, both. "Okay…"

Gerry refused any food, but sat down with Michael at the table and watched him eat. It was a silent affair mostly, neither too fond of much chatter right after getting up, both letting the strange situation sink in, adjusting to having somebody to keep quiet company. Mary had often been quiet when they ate, but it had been an oppressive sort of silence and Gerry had been craving nothing more than to get away from it. This was different. He leaned back, relaxed. Watched Michael somehow get crumbs in his eyebrows as he ate.

"Are you sure you don't want anything?" Michael asked and Gerry rolled his eyes at the tone. He was still talking about blood.

"No, I'll get something outside."

Michael’s lips pulled into something akin to a pout. "May I ask why?"

Gerry furrowed his brows, looked at his hands in his lap. "I just...prefer to drink from strangers."

Michael wanted to press on, but Gerry didn’t seem comfortable with talking about this, so he sighed. "Okay…" 

When Gerry looked up at him again, there was a grateful smile on his lips. Michael smiled back and finished his breakfast in silence. He brought Gerry to the door after, and they found themselves standing in the threshold once more, neither knowing how to exactly say their goodbyes after the previous night. 

Michael broke the silence eventually, and it was strange to hear him so anxious, though perhaps it was stranger still that there was still some of that dangerous edge to his voice, even when he was speaking in this tone. It made it nearly sound menacing. “Does this mean you’ll stop avoiding me?”

Gerry looked surprised. “I...yeah, I guess.” He ran a hand through his hair, unsure what to say. “I...I’m sorry about it. I just…” He trailed off. There was too much to explain and Gerry didn’t know if he wanted to disclose all of that right now. Or ever.

Michael smiled, “It’s fine.” Quieter, “I missed you.”

“Oh…” Gerry hesitated for a moment, before leaning in and pressing a short kiss to Michael’s cheek. “I missed you, too.”

Michael’s smile was wider now, hopeful. “Then...see you soon?”

Gerry nodded. “Well, whenever your next concert is, I guess.”

“We should meet outside of my concerts sometime. If...you want.” Again, he sounded so strangely awkward. It was endearing.

Gerry nodded with a smile. “Sure.”

*

They didn't get to set anything up before Michael’s next concert. It was as breathtaking as always, and Gerry was unsure if he might be imagining the glances, the more private smiles Michael occasionally threw at him. They were such a contrast to the violent intensity they seemed unreal, too genuine, too soft, and Gerry was left pleasantly dizzy and with a smile on his own on his lips. 

Gerry took his time getting ready to leave, listened to the cutting-edge of Michael’s friendly tone as he accepted thanks. His voice was so strange in itself that Gerry was sure most people didn’t even notice the tone.

Once the last person had left Gerry heard Michael’s steps approach and turned around, only to be pulled into a short but passionate kiss that left him speechless for a moment.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for so long, you have no idea,” Michael finally said, amused. 

He brushed a strand of hair behind Gerry’s ear with gentleness utterly at odds with the ferocity of the kiss, the way he was still electric with energy, a vicious curve to his smile. Gerry was sure his heart would’ve been beating quicker if it still could. Instead, there was a dazed smile on his lips.

“It was a good concert.”

Michael’s smile softened a little, eyes filling with new excitement. “You think so?”

Gerry blinked, confused. “Of course. I mean...they all are. 

“Oh?” Michael seemed genuinely surprised. “I mean, it’s difficult to tell for me. Since you seem so...unaffected.”

“Unaffected?” Gerry raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, I mean...that’s the main reason I wasn’t too surprised about finding out you’re a vampire.”

Gerry tensed a little at the word, but brushed it off. “What does it usually do? Your music.”

Michael considered for a moment. “I mean, it depends on the person I guess. But in the end it kills. Violently.”

The Slaughter, then. Gerry had been considering ever since Michael’s comment that night. He guessed it made sense, looking back on all. His lips pulled into a grin. “Ah, well, I guess it doesn’t work on me, then. But you’re wrong. I wouldn’t say it has  _ no _ effect on me.”

They had started to walk towards the door as they talked and Michael held it open for him, raised an eyebrow as he followed Gerry into the night. “What do you mean?”

Gerry considered. It was difficult to explain, not really something he could express in words. He looked up at Michael, now walking beside him. “May I record you next time?”

Michael tensed, frowned. “Why?”

“I want to show you something. Only audio.”

Michael’s frown only deepened. “Show me...what?”

“The effect your music has on me.”

“It...requires recording?” He still sounded a little suspicious.

Gerry nodded. “I’ll delete it right after. Only we will hear it. Okay?”

There was a moment of consideration before Michael nodded. “Fine.” He was smiling again. “May I take your hand?”

Gerry chuckled and nodded, threading his fingers through Michael’s as they walked on.

They didn’t have to wait very long since the next performance was the following night. Gerry left his phone close to stage to record, and went to work. 

Michael was jittery on their way to his house after, clearly wondering what exactly Gerry was planning to do. He wasn’t the biggest fan of surprises, but Gerry’s answers were all vague and, if his grin was anything to go by, he seemed to be enjoying himself. Michael sighed, and maybe walked a little faster than usual.

Inside, he turned towards Gerry, expectant. Gerry laughed. “Impatient.” 

He walked past Michael and into the living room. It seemed to be the one with the most empty space, at least of the doors Gerry had seen the other side of. Michael followed him, somehow eager and reluctant at the same time. Gerry motioned for him to sit while he took out his phone and Michael sat down on the armrest of the couch, waiting for Gerry to do something. Gerry hit play on what he had recorded and put his phone down on the small coffee table.

It was strange to hear his own music without a violin in his hand, fingers on the strings, bow in hand, actually  _ making _ that music. It felt surreal and Michael’s brows furrowed - to Gerry's amusement - and his empty fingers twisted, restless, as he heard the familiar sound of his violin through the phone speakers. This was wrong and his fingers were itching to right it, somehow, until they were in Gerry's all of a sudden, and Michael was on his feet, and they were dancing. 

Gerry twirled and swirled them, and Michael was still confused by what exactly was happening, but let himself be led across the room because Gerry moved like water, smooth and mesmerising. His steps seemed perfectly timed, turns and shifts one with Michael’s violin, quick and furious and Gerry looked graceful as he danced to those harsh notes, and yet it looked perfect. 

The pace had been quick from the start, like the music, and the room was a blur when the violin crescendoed and Gerry pulled apart and pulled them close, led them two steps back and three forward and turned and twirled and did all of it at once, fiercely elegant, and Michael felt strangely fragile. It was his music in his ears, but it was Gerry leading the dance and he did it well and insistently and Michael had the strange realisation that he was dangerous, inhuman, his touch electric where his cold hands touched Michael, potential to kill right under his skin. 

Michael felt understood, in a way, like Gerry understood what he was hearing even if the music didn’t have the desired effect, maybe that he understood better for his mind did not get clouded with the thrill of violence upon hearing Michael play. And Michael was in awe, watched the content expression on Gerry's face, the nearly cruel glint in his eyes, too amused to really carry, as he watched Michael’s face, surprise and revelation clear on his freckled features as they twisted and twirled, quicker and quicker and the room fell away and the music felt louder when Michael moved to it, when Gerry's hands pulled him along for the dizzying dance. 

And then the music stopped, on a high, shrill note, like Michael often liked to end, except he felt this one in his bones this time, not the way he usually did, when he felt enveloped by it, one with it, but distinctly different as they came to a stop suddenly, and Michael clung to Gerry because the room was spinning and his head was light and Gerry clung back because he was breathless despite not needing to breathe and the sudden silence was nearly deafening, threatening to knock him off his feet. He met Michael’s eyes, and they were alight, and filled with wonder, and his face was flushed red, his hair windswept and he looked like he had been swept off his feet and Gerry grinned as they kept panting in each other's arms.

"Do you understand?" He asked.

Michael took a moment to find his voice with that grin directed at him, a show of teeth, thrill laced Gerry's voice and it was all a little much for how woozy Michael felt. He licked his lips, nodded slowly, breathed, "Yes. Yes I do."

Gerry’s grin, if possible, grew even wider.

*

The first time Gerry found himself in front of Michael’s door without it being after bringing Michael home after a concert, it felt weird. He felt nervous, despite there being no reason for that to be the case. He had stayed over a couple times after concerts by now. He felt more at ease. So it was a little ridiculous to be nervous. Michael was still the same, still hadn’t shown any signs of being put off by Gerry. It was nice. Gerry was smiling when he finally rang the doorbell.

Michael opened the door and Gerry was, for a moment, surprised by his casual clothes until he remembered it wasn’t after a concert right now. Michael’s smile was bright and he bent forward to kiss Gerry’s cheek.

“Let me just get my keys…”

Gerry nodded and waited as Michael went back inside. They had thrown a couple ideas around for what to do once they met up outside of concert context. They usually didn’t do much on those nights, tiredness tended to catch up to Michael after a while of them just talking, lying around. Once Gerry had started reading to him, and Michael had fallen asleep on the couch after a couple pages, looking content. 

Neither of them really minded their more lazy nights, but it had felt necessary to maybe find something to do if they met up without being tired out from work. It had been Michael who suggested the nearby park, and it was Michael who took Gerry’s hand after locking the door and led the way.

The nights were getting warmer again and even in the dark the park looked pretty, trees finally no longer barren, grass lush, some flowers here and there. It smelled of spring and Michael was humming under his breath as they walked. They hadn’t talked much, but the silence was comfortable. 

“You can hum normally, if you want. I...don’t think anyone else is out here.”

Michael threw him a glance, a small grin on his lips. “You are.”

“I don’t mind. It sounds nice.”

Michael looked surprised, just for a moment, then laughed. As usual, he sighed, content and Gerry couldn’t help but give a content sigh himself. Michael smiled at that, wrapped his arm around Gerry’s and leaned closer. And then he hummed, not loud, but no longer under his breath, and the sound was soothing and thrilling at once. Occasionally, that tone seemed to slip through, the one laced in his voice as he spoke that made part of Gerry alert, kept him on his toes. But it was also calming, strangely fitting for the quiet night, only the leaves rustling in the gentle breeze accompanying him.

They sat down on one of the beaches eventually and Michael leaned his head back, looked up at the grey sky.

"No stars…" 

It nearly sounded like he was pouting and Gerry gave a little chuckle. "There's a couple, if you squint."

Michael gave him a curious glance. "Can you see in the dark?"

"I can. Though that's not what I meant, look." He raised his hand and pointed at a spot where the clouds had parted, three stars blinking in the dark sky behind. 

Michael smiled. “Ah…” 

His eyes fell on Gerry’s hand, and Michael decided to take it, traced the veins on the back of it. He couldn’t see much, but felt them, vaguely remembered the thin greenish lines on Gerry’s palms from nights spent following them on his couch while Gerry read or something. Gerry let his hand relax into Michael’s now, leaned against Michael’s side. 

They sat like that for a little while, until Gerry felt Michael’s fingers grow a little cold and brought them to his lips, pressed a kiss to the palm of his hand, a lingering one to his wrist, blood pulsing faintly under his lips. Gerry eventually let go, gathered Michael’s hand between his own. It wouldn’t help. It had been long since his hands had been warm.

“Should we go back? You’re cold.”

Michael hummed, nodded. They stood after a short moment, and leisurely made their way back to Michael’s house.

*

They tried to make it a recurring thing, to meet up unrelated to Gerry walking him home after work. It had a different feeling to it that both enjoyed, and it wasn’t like they got up to much else on their free nights anyway. So they’d meet up for a walk, sometimes go back to the park, sometimes move towards the city and watch the city lights illuminating near-empty streets. Some nights they would just stay inside like they usually did after Michael’s concerts, curled up on the couch or in bed, if they were feeling particularly lazy. 

There was also a small backyard Michael showed him when he showed Gerry the rest of the house at some point, a perfect place to set a blanket down and watch the night sky once the nights got milder and when they weren’t particularly feeling like walking around, but didn’t want to stay inside either.

Gerry’s back was against the outer wall of the house, Michael awkwardly half-sitting, half-lying in his lap, head resting on Gerry’s shoulder. The night was clear and Michael’s head was tipped towards the sky, hand abscent-mindedly drawing patterns on Gerry’s arm.

"You're free tomorrow, too, right?" Gerry mumbled after a moment, fingers playing idly with the tips of Michael’s hair.

Michael hummed. "Mhm. Last night before a week and a half on non-stop concerts."

Gerry nodded. "Right…"

"Do you want to stay? You ate already, right?" Michael shifted his head a little to look at Gerry’s face.

Gerry never stayed the nights he fed. He nodded. "Yesterday."

"So do you want to stay?"

Gerry met his eyes with a grin. "Of course."

Michael smiled, looked back at the sky and Gerry shifted to press a kiss to the curve of his neck, and Michael sighed, eyes fluttering close as Gerry continued kissing his neck, lips cool against his skin.

Gerry woke suspicious unsmothered the following night and a quick look around made clear Michael had apparently already gotten up. Gerry checked his phone and it was barely time for the sun to set. Michael did sometimes get up early to run errands - or would only go to bed late - but there had been no such plans for today.

Gerry found him in the kitchen once he finally managed to get out of bed and shuffle out of the dark bedroom. 

“Gerry! Slept well?” He turned around, and Gerry froze for a moment. 

He couldn’t quite tell why, if it was the red on Michael’s lips and chin or simply the fact that he was standing at the kitchen counter shirtless. Gerry blinked the lingering haze of sleep away, but the picture didn’t change. Gerry’s eyes fell on the counter, a plate with two pomegranate halves sitting right beside where Michael was leaning. “I...did. You’re up early.”

Michael shrugged, popped a red seed into his mouth. “I woke up hungry. Remembered I still had one of the pomegranates I got a while ago…” 

Gerry’s gaze went back to his face. “Is there a reason you’re shirtless?”

The smile on Michael’s lips was a little lopsided. “Didn’t want to stain my sweater.”

Gerry shook his head, but he was grinning. He closed the distance between them, pressed his lips to Michael’s sticky ones. Michael kissed him back and Gerry’s hands ran up his chest, followed the line of his shoulders, his arms, as he deepened the kiss. It was something of a rarity for Michael to shed his sweaters. He got cold quickly, shivered now under Gerry’s cool fingertips. But it felt good, and Gerry’s tongue was running over his lips, and Michael sighed and leaned back against the counter, wrapped one arm around Gerry’s waist, combed the fingers of his free hand through Gerry’s hair.

They pulled apart after a moment and Gerry’s arms were around Michael’s neck now, fingers idly wrapping some curl or another around themselves. There was still something sleepy to his grin, but mostly, he looked endeared. Maybe a little amused.

“You really are a lost cause eating pomegranates, aren’t you?”

Michael chuckled. “Don’t know what you mean, love.”

“You know you’re not supposed to look like you just murdered somebody after eating one, right?” Gerry kissed his chin. “Not that it doesn’t look good on you. Just wondering if you’re aware.”

Michael’s cheeks warmed a little at that. “Flattery so early in the night.” He pressed their foreheads together with a grin. “How are you supposed to eat them, Ger?”

Gerry grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Seed by seed from your lover’s fingers, of course.”

He held a ruby seed he had just plucked from the plate to Michael’s lips, who ate it with a chuckle. “Oh? Let’s maybe move somewhere more comfortable for that, then.” Gerry laughed and took a step back. Michael rightened himself with a grin, took the plate with the fruit. Gerry was already turning around to make his way to the couch when Michael asked. “Also, does that mean I get to feed you some, too?”

"Hm….I guess." He threw a glance over his shoulder at Michael. "I guess in that case it's best to follow your example, though."

Michael attentively watched as Gerry pulled his shirt over his head. Gerry had a nice back, badly scarred in places, as a lot of him was. Burns and cuts and scars Michael couldn’t quite place, spent minutes tracing, wondering without daring to ask. Gerry rarely talked about himself, deflected questions with vague responses that left Michael with an urge to make whoever or whatever hurt him pay. He didn’t push for details, though, only kissed the scars and learned the feeling of them under his fingers, as Gerry sighed into his chest. It was fine. Gerry was safe from harm, now, and he was beautiful as he sat down on Michael’s couch, gave him a smile. Michael sat down beside him, but quickly opted for lying down istead, head in Gerry’s lap, ankles crossed on the armrest of the couch.

Gerry raised an eyebrow. “Can you even eat like that?”

Michael shrugged. “We’ll find out.”

Gerry shook his head, grabbed one of the throw pillows that perpetually ended up on the floor whenever they spent any amount of time cuddling on the couch. He motioned for Michael to raise his head, which he did, and put the pillow on his lap. Michael lay back down again, smiled up at him, expectant. 

Gerry picked up a pomegranate seed from the plate on the armrest next to him and brought it to Michael’s lips. He ate it, pressed a kiss to Gerry’s fingers. Gerry chuckled, shook his head with a fond smile on his lips before taking another seed from the plate.

They carried on like that mostly in silence, Gerry bringing seed after ruby seed to Michael’s lips, fingers lingering because Michael’s lips lingered, a kiss to sticky fingertips, a flick of his tongue to taste the pomegranate juice on Gerry’s fingers. It tickled, and maybe the whole situation was just a little silly, and the occasional giggles escaped Gerry’s lips, and Michael fell in love all over again, felt warmth spread in his chest, bubbling out in giggles of his own.

Michael did eventually try to bring a seed to Gerry’s lips, but it slipped and fell, and they both had to laugh.

"Considering how gracefully you play your violin i really would assume you'd be a bit less clumsy with your hands."

Michael laughed at that. "I only have a steady hand to play and to kill, darling. Everything else-" another seed slipped from between his fingers, and Gerry picked it up from where it had landed on Michael’s chest and popped it into his mouth with a grin. Michael only had to chuckle harder and Gerry rolled his eyes, though they were brimming with fondness, grin more of a fond smile at the edges.

"No wonder you make such a mess eating every time." Gerry steadied Michael’s hand the next time he managed to bring a seed to his lips, gracefully wrapped his fingers around Michael’s wrist as he ate the pomegranate seed, held it there to kiss the juice from his calloused fingertips. 

He traced the veins on Michael’s wrist, before pressing a kiss to it, too, lingering and Michael shivered. He cupped Gerry’s cheek and pulled him down, leaning up to meet him for a kiss that turned into many and soon the plate with the rest of the pomegranate was put to the side and Michael wrapped his arms around Gerry, shifted to make space for him on the couch, so they were soon chest to chest and Gerry’s hands were in Michael’s hair as he kissed him breathless.

  
  


*

It was easy to forget what he was with Michael. And sometimes Gerry even felt like he forgot who he was, and he felt light, buoyant with the weight of the past off his shoulders. He couldn't remember ever laughing quite as much in his life before Michael. Gerry loved it.

Of course, the light feeling never lasted. And Gerry became most aware of what he was on the nights he had to feed. He never stayed at Michael’s on those, didn’t go there after he was done, but retreated into his own apartment to bear the familiar disgust, the nausea of what he had just done.

Despite the light drizzle that had already started when he left Michael at his door about an hour or so earlier, the night was still warm. The rain was getting heavier, and even those alleys that still had people wandering them at this hour were empty tonight. It was fine. Not ideal, but Gerry had years of experience to know where to search for those who still stayed even when the weather turned on them. He was on his way to one of those spots when he heard her, just behind him.

“Gerard.”

Gerry hadn’t heard her voice in years, and yet, every cell in his body froze at the sound, recognising it immediately. Except it couldn’t  _ be _ . Mary was dead.

Mary was standing across from him when he turned around, only a couple steps away. She looked exactly like Gerry remembered, like he still saw her in his nightmares. He felt familiar panic claw at his throat, and he didn’t understand and no matter how much he blinked against the steadily increasing rain Mary was still  _ there _ when she should have been dead.

She opened her mouth to speak, and Gerry turned around and ran.

*

Michael didn’t know if it was too early or too late when he stumbled to the door, disoriented and still half-asleep. He had tried to ignore the knocking, but it wouldn’t stop. He tried to blink the door into focus, ran a hand through his hair to ground himself. Realistically, not many people knew where he lived. That did mean this could mean trouble. 

Michael opened the door carefully, only enough for him to look out through the gap. It was pouring, the sound previously muted now flooding him, waking him up a little. He vaguely remembered the light rain that had started on his way home, the fact that Gerry had refused to take an umbrella for his own way home after they had parted ways in front of Michael’s door. Gerry never stayed on nights he fed. 

It did raise the question why the figure standing in front of his door looked very much like Gerry. Something felt wrong.

Michael opened the door wide and Gerry, for a short moment, looked terrified. He was drenched and trembling, and the terror never quite left his face, even after the initial shock subsided. There was a sharp, shaky intake of breath and Michael realised he was sobbing, the wetness on his cheeks not just rain, the jerky shaking of his shoulders more than just Gerry playing at being out of breath. He still did it, no matter how many times Michael reminded him he didn’t care if Gerry passed for human around him. It was fine. Gerry knew he was just teasing.

“Come in,” Michael mumbled, held out his hand. His mind was spinning, trying to imagine what had put Gerry in this state, the last haze of sleep lifting.

Gerry’s fingers were icy when he took Michael’s hand with his shaking one and stepped over the threshold. He basically fell into Michael’s arms and Michael stumbled back, surprised. Gerry was cold where he clung to the front of Michael’s shirt, rain water seeping into the fabric as Michael shifted a little to close the door. The sound of rain was muffled again and Gerry’s heaving breathing became a lot more obvious. Michael held him close, stroked his hair in hope to calm him. He knew Gerry didn’t need to breathe, that he wasn’t actually choking, but the fact that he seemed unable to stop, seemed to have forgotten that himself, was concerning.

Michael gently moved him further into the house, sat down with him on the couch. Gerry hadn’t said anything yet, he simply kept crying into Michael’s shirt and trembling in his arms and with every sob Michael’s concern was joined by anger, fury at whatever or whoever had put Gerry in such a state. 

Gerry had always been a constant, he was steady and unmovable, and now his crumbled up form was curled up in Michael’s lap, heaving breaths he didn’t need but seeming too far gone, too panicked to even realise it. And Michael hated it, hated whatever had managed to upset Gerry this bad and he tried to soothe and mumble reassurances, voice a little tight but he had to focus to not let the anger slip into it. Anger didn’t seem right, wasn’t what Gerry needed. 

So he rubbed his back and shaking shoulders and kissed his wet hair, eventually draped a blanket over Gerry’s shoulders because it felt like the right thing to do, even if he knew Gerry was in no danger of catching a cold. He wasn’t even sure if Gerry was feeling the cold, he wasn’t responding to any of Michael’s questions, only sobbing, and Michael gave up asking and tried reassuring again. 

It took a couple of minutes before Gerry seemed calmer. Still a long way from calm, but the vice grip he had on Michael’s shirt loosened a little, and he looked up from where he had been hiding his face and he looked so very miserable Michael thought his heart might break at the sight. He put a hand to his wet cheek, gently brushed away tears and rain and searched Gerry’s eyes, still big and shocked, for an answer. 

He couldn’t find one, so he asked again, gently, “What happened?”

A shiver went through Gerry and Michael squeezed him close, steadied him. He was safe here, and he could talk if he wanted to. If he didn’t, Michael wouldn’t push. 

Gerry wanted to talk but his throat felt raw and he could feel the panic bubbling up again. He put a hand on Michael’s chest, gently pressed it against the steady beating of his heart, and closed his eyes, counting. He felt Michael’s hand brush his hair out of his face, fingers warm and careful and Gerry leaned into the touch. 

He opened his eyes again, but left his hand where it was, tried not to think too much about the blood. The motion was still calming, the heartbeat grounding, and Gerry was hungry but he was, most of all, distressed and afraid and so many other things and he wanted to tell Michael. And he also didn’t. He shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have shown her the way.

He swallowed. “She...she’s alive. She found me, she-- Michael she’s  _ alive _ . I...I thought she, I was trying to, I-”

Michael pulled him closer as his words dissolved into sobs again, ran his fingers through Gerry’s hair. “Mary?” he tried, barely a whisper. 

Gerry avoided talking about her, but Michael had pieced together from the little he had said that she had been anything but pleasant. It was the only thing that made sense, as far as Michael could tell. And at the same time it didn’t make sense at all. Gerry had been very clear about her being dead. 

Gerry nodded, “I don’t understand how, I...I saw. I...the fire. And she was in, the light in the study. It...it was on. She was dead, she burned she, she-”

His voice kept pitching higher with panic and Michael frowned, squeezed him gently. “It’s okay. She can’t get you here.”

“She can!” Gerry shook his head, fingers twisting into Michael’s shirt. “She- I shouldn’t have come here, she...she might have followed, she-”

_ Let her _ , he wanted to say. It would save time tracking her down to kill her. He wouldn’t let her hurt Gerry again. Michael didn’t know when he had started to grit his teeth, but he forced himself to relax, to breathe. He needed to keep calm. For Gerry.

“I won’t let her hurt you, Gerry, and she can’t get in so easily even if you did show the way.” He cupped Gerry’s face with his hands and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Michael held his gaze as he caressed his cheek, waited for the alarmed expression to mellow into something less on edge before he asked, “Do you want to tell me what happened tonight?”

Gerry nodded. He felt like he should try to make sense of it, that maybe then his mind would stop spinning trying to understand it himself. 

It was so difficult to focus. He tried anyway, “I was out. To feed. When she just...she was suddenly there. Talking to me, and...and I ran.”

It didn’t sound right, didn’t include any of the panic, the way his whole body had frozen at the sound of her voice and he was suddenly back in his room, hungry, so hungry because she wanted to see how long he could go without blood. Bruised because he dared to beg, bleeding because she wanted to see if it would make him hungrier.

Concerned, Michael watched the faraway expression on Gerry’s face. The question of him being sure it had been her occured to Michael, but he felt it was unnecessary to ask. If Gerry wouldn’t be completely sure, he wouldn’t be looking like this, lost and horrified. He wouldn’t get this worked up if he weren’t certain. 

They sat in silence for a moment, Gerry lost in thoughts and Michael trying to calm his scorching anger. He wanted to go out and find her now, make her pay, make her  _ die _ . Realistically, he knew he couldn’t. He’d have to find her first. And he didn’t want to leave Gerry alone, not like this. He wanted to pull him out of his thoughts somehow, wanted to find something to distract him. 

“You didn’t get to eat, did you?” It probably wasn’t the best way to distract, but Michael couldn’t help the glimpses of fangs as Gerry spoke.

It did snap Gerry out of it, his eyes slowly focussing again. He shook his head. “She...found me. Before I could and I...I couldn’t let her catch me, I...I don’t want to be back, I don’t, I...she...Michael,  _ I thought she was dead _ .”

He sounded close to tears again and Michael pulled him into a tight hug, kissed his head.  _ And she will be _ . He didn’t say it, instead said, “She won’t have you. I won’t let her.” 

Michael sounded so sure Gerry had to smile, a sad little thing. He leaned his head against Michael’s shoulders and let the words in, allowed himself to find comfort in a promise he knew was empty. Michael didn’t know her. Mary Keay wasn’t somebody who could be stopped. 

But for now, Gerry tried to focus on the warmth his cheek was pressed against, on the strength of Michael’s arms around him, the familiar surroundings of Michael’s living room. It was all far away from outside, and it was comfort and, in a way, Gerry felt safe, despite knowing it wasn’t so easy. It was fine. For now, it was what he had and he clung to it.

“Can I...can I stay here? Today?” He hesitated, before mumbling, “May...maybe longer?”

Michael chuckled, smoothed his hair. “Gerry, my sweet, you can always stay here. Whenever and however long you want or need.” He pressed a kiss to his forehead, brushed his hair behind his ear. Gerry looked tired and pale and miserable and Michael wanted to help. “You’ll need to eat, though.”

Gerry knit his brows. “It’s...it’s fine. I can go longer, I can-”

“Gerry...her being...back. Alive. Is enough. You don’t need to starve yourself, too.” He tried to keep his voice gentle, but Gerry still tensed up in his arms.

Gerry sat up, expression stubborn as he met Michael’s eyes. “I’m fine!”

Michael smiled, pet his cheek, gently. “You look like a miserable wet dog, darling.”

His eyes went a little wide, as if it had just caught up to him that he was, indeed, still drenched from the rain. He lowered his eyes, watched the dark spots on Michael’s shirt where water had gotten on the fabric. 

He sounded bashful when he spoke, “I’m sorry, I...I’m getting water on you.”

Michael huffed out a chuckle. “A bit late.” He took Gerry’s hands and squeezed them gently. They were a little warmer now, after resting against Michael for so long. But they were still shaking. “But yes. Do you want to take a shower? I’ll get you some clothes. Maybe you’ll feel a bit better after.”

Gerry watched their hands for a moment, thought of Michael’s fingers, slender and dexterous, on his violin earlier that night. How long had it been? Gerry felt like his world had tipped since then, like he had lost his footing. But Michael’s hands were still the same, beautiful and gentle with him, even if hours before they had played the violin with barely-contained violence. Gerry would never stop being fascinated with them. 

“I...okay,” he mumbled, nodding.

“Unless you want to eat first,” Michael mumbled.

Gerry shook his head. He was hungry, but he didn’t dare to step outside again tonight. “I don’t want to go outside...she’s...there.”

It didn’t matter where exactly. Mary had always been omnipresent in his life, even after her death. She haunted him in memory, in dream. And now she was alive and beyond Michael’s door, she will find him. Gerry didn't notice his trembling intensifying.

Michael did, and he squeezed his hands again. “Then drink from me.”

Gerry shook his head. “Michael, no, I don’t...I don’t want to hurt you, you’ll...you’ll realise she’s right, I’m a monster, I...I shouldn’t  _ be _ and, and-”

“Nonsense. Gerry, I-” He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t care. It’s not like you technically not being human changes anything about you being  _ you _ .”

Gerry frowned. “It’s easy to say that when you’re human-”

“I told you that’s probably not strictly true.”

“ _ Closer to _ human than I am.” Gerry sighed, his tone one of frustration as he continued. “It’s hard to  _ ignore _ , Michael. I fucking drink blood.”

Michael shook his head, took Gerry’s face into his hands, locked eyes. "I haven't been the one ignoring and pretending you're not what you are, my sweet. That's what  _ you _ have been doing and I'm trying to tell you, to make you understand - and have been since the beginning - that you don't have to. I love you. Fangs and unbeating heart and all." He took a deep breath, brushed a tear away that spilled over from Gerry’s eyes. “It’s not ‘despite those things, I still love you’ or some sort of active attempt to forget what you are. Gerry, I fell in love with you before I really knew what you were, and none of my feelings changed when I found out. Because being a vampire didn’t suddenly overshadow everything else, it’s not what defines you. You’re more than that.”

Gerry looked so much like he wanted to believe him, fresh tears gathering in his dark eyes and still doubt, always that last flicker of doubt and stubbornness when he answered. "It's...it's easy to say that. You never...you've never seen me. Drink. You'll change your mind, you-"

Michael shook his head. "Gerry, i don't think you understand. Do you want a list? Because I can do this, I can sit here and tell you how much I love you, how much I love your smile, how your laughter is my favourite music, how there’s absolutely nothing prettier than to watch your face when you’re focused on something and your eyes get all intense and you suck in your lower lip.” He took Gerry’s confused face into his hands with a grin, traced his cheekbones with his thumbs. “I love when you listen to me ramble on and on and that content smile is on your pretty lips, and when  _ you _ talk, and Gerry, you’re the loveliest person I’ve ever talked to, I love how you can be so funny and-”

A small chuckle escaped Gerry’s lips, bashful, but his eyes were shining, hopeful. "Okay, okay. I'm sorry, I...it's not that I don't believe you. It's just...difficult.” More quietly, as he averted his eyes. “And now...I...remember everything she said-"

"It doesn't matter to me, Gerry, love, darling.  _ You _ matter to me." Michael pressed a kiss to his forehead, then pressed their foreheads together, looked into Gerry’s eyes. “I know it’s...a struggle. I don’t expect you to suddenly forget everything she said and you believe. But I can be stubborn. And I love you. And I hope one day you’ll realise I mean it. I’ll be stubborn about that.” He pressed their noses together with a grin. “Well, unless you want me to stop trying, I guess.”

Gerry chuckled, a little rough, but it still made Michael smile, relieved. Gerry returned it with a small, tired smile of his own. He felt warm, a little bit. Among all other things, Michael somehow still managed to make him feel warm. “Alright.”

Michael kissed his upper lip. “Shower or food first?”

Gerry felt the anxiety spike again, nervousness that he couldn’t shake no matter how much Michael reassured him it was fine. Maybe a shower could help with that, too. Maybe if he would feel less gross, the idea of drinking from Michael wouldn’t seem so scary.

“Shower, I think.”

Michael nodded, “Okay.”

They finally got up from the couch and Gerry went back to the entrance to take off his shoes, mumbling apologies about having gotten the floor dirty Michael simply waved away. He went to find something for Gerry to wear while Gerry made his way to the bathroom. 

When all was settled, Gerry found himself under the steady stream of hot water in Michael’s bathtub. It felt good, melted the rest of the tension out of his shoulder, felt like washing the night away. He felt tired to his bones, exhausted, and his head was numb and empty after all that had happened. 

The hunger was a lot more obvious now, and it filled him with anxiety. But even that seemed strangely muted as he washed his hair. Maybe this would be the last night he’d have with Michael. He might as well get it over with. The idea hurt, but Gerry was tired and hungry and he let everything dissolve in the hot water. He’d know soon and he was too tired to work himself up about it. It had been enough excitement for one night.

Michael was waiting in bed when Gerry made his way to the bedroom in clothes too big and foreign. But they were soft. Gerry had always loved that about the clothes Michael wore at home, or even the sweaters he’d sometimes wear to his concerts in winter. There was a softness to them that made it difficult to not touch them, try to stay close. They smelled nice, too, though that was the case for Michael’s clothes in general. And for him. Something comforting with some kind of spicy undertone. 

Michael looked up from his book when he heard Gerry approach, and smiled, endeared. “How do you feel?”

Michael was sitting on the covers, and while he was wearing a fresh pair of trousers, he hadn’t put on a new shirt yet, his old, wet one thrown haphazardly into a corner. Gerry crawled into bed next to him, wrapped his arms around him. Michael sighed, leaned into the touch. Gerry was still warm from the shower, and Michael was starting to feel a bit chilly. 

“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” Gerry mumbled into his arm, then more quietly, “Better. Thank you.”

Michael chuckled, returned the hug. “I just thought...if you do want to feed I might as well wait until after. So I don’t get blood on it.”

Gerry looked up at him with a strange combination of nervousness, endearment and hunger. “Are...are you sure, Michael?”

Michael nodded, cupped his face with one hand. “I am.” He pressed their lips together, pulled away with a reassuring smile. “You?”

Gerry huffed a laugh. “Probably as sure as I’ll ever get.”

“Okay. Take your time.” Michael pressed his lips to Gerry’s forehead before leaning back against the pillow at his back. “Tell me if I can help...make it easier for you, somehow…”

Gerry gave a small smile. “Just...just hold still.”

Michael did. Gerry carefully released the embrace, felt Michael shiver at the loss of warmth. It was okay. It wouldn’t be long, it would be okay. Gerry brushed his hair to the side, pressed a kiss to Michael’s neck. His hand wandered down, traced his collarbone before settling over his heart. It was beating more quickly, his pulse fast under Gerry’s lips.

“Is everything...alright?” He mumbled, looked up at Michael’s face.

He nodded, smile encouraging. His face looked relaxed enough, maybe a hint of anticipation. Gerry guessed that made sense, probably. Maybe he was too hungry to think too much about it. 

His lips were back at Michael’s neck, and Michael leaned his head to the side, exposed more of it. Gerry’s other hand went to the back of his head, to steady, to have somewhere to put it so it would stop shaking nervously. And when Gerry reached the spot where neck met shoulder he waited, one heartbeat, two, and it was torture but he listened to any possible sign of distress from Michael. Then he bit down, and a soft gasp escaped Michael’s lips, but there was blood in Gerry’s mouth and he scarcely registered it. He did feel the hand in his hair and his grip in Michael’s hair tightened, just for a moment. But Michael simply ran his fingers through Gerry’s hair, languidly.  _ It’s fine. I’m fine.  _ So Gerry drank.

Michael held still and let him. It felt strange, to feel himself lose blood and not fight it. Not try to stop it. It felt strange to have something sharp pierce his skin and just let it happen, keeping it close. Gerry’s lips were cool against his skin. It was oddly pleasant, a familiar detail amidst the very unfamiliar situation. 

But it was alright. It wasn't the first time Michael felt vulnerable around Gerry. In a way he had every time Gerry had kissed his neck, his wrists, Michael had let him get so very close to what he knew he could rip if he wanted to, kill Michael easily. This still felt different, but it was still Gerry and Michael trusted him enough to let himself be vulnerable. He held still for him, felt his head supported by Gerry’s hand as it grew heavy and light at the same time. Michael’s vision was starting to swim at the edges, just a little. He still felt Gerry’s hand against his chest, above his heartbeat that was starting to pick up again as his body registered the bloodloss. 

"Gerry," he mumbled, gentle. A reminder.

Gerry froze against him, pulled away carefully. He looked up at Michael’s face and wondered if he looked more pale than before. Maybe Gerry had gotten carried away.

"I'm sorry...was...was that too much?" The panicked edge was back in his voice as he brushed the blood still welling up away with his hand, pressed down on the bite gently. Michael shook his head. "I'm fine, don't worry."

Gerry pulled his hand away after a moment and there was blood sticking to his fingers and he felt familiar disgust even as the pleasant feeling of being full, no longer hungry, settled in his veins. Michael noticed and took Gerry’s hand, pressed his lips to the bloodied fingers.

“Gerry, it’s alright. I’m alright.” Gerry watched him, hopeful, though that lingering disgust didn’t quite leave his eyes. Michael squeezed his hand gently. It wasn’t shaking as badly anymore. He kissed Gerry’s bloodied fingers again. “It’s fine.”

Gerry nodded, slowly. His eyes were still fixed on the smudged blood on his fingers. “Let me...let me wash that off.” He could still taste it on his tongue, and it smelled good, and part of Gerry wanted to lick it off. He wouldn’t, refused to.

Michael let go off his hand with a nod and Gerry got up from the bed, swallowed as he looked at Michael leaning limply against the wall. But his eyes were open and focused, and he was smiling and the wound seemed to have ceased bleeding already. Gerry felt relieved, allowed himself to relax a little before he turned around and went to wash his hands. 

He came back a little later with clean hands, a wet cloth to clean the rest of the blood from Michael’s neck and a glass of orange juice Michael accepted, mildly confused, when Gerry pressed it into his hands. He drank and Gerry waited before he took the empty glass off Michael’s hands, and brought the cloth to the remaining spilled blood on his neck. Michael hummed, eyes fluttering close. Gerry had to smile, put the cloth away before brushing Michael’s hair out of his face, waiting for him to open his eyes again. Michael did, gaze a little hazy, but it could be sleep.

“How do you feel?” Gerry mumbled.

“Fine. Tired.”  _ Angry _ . Michael could still feel it, the fury from earlier. But it was dampened by tiredness, the comfort of Gerry’s hands on his face. He’d deal with it tomorrow. Or in a couple hours, he guessed. For now, he gave Gerry a small grin. “A little cold.”

Gerry nodded, climbed out of bed again and made his way to the closet. “Any wishes?”

Michael shook his head. “Just whatever.”

They got comfortable under the covers as soon as Michael got into the shirt Gerry handed him. Michael’s arms were wrapped around Gerry’s middle, Gerry’s back against Michael’s chest. Gerry felt weary, but his eyes were still open, staring at the wall. He could feel Michael’s steady heartbeat against his back, heard his slow, calming breathing. It was soothing, but Gerry doubted he’d get much sleep.

They had slept in, and then lingered in bed, and Michael knew he’d have to get up to eat something soon, but he didn’t want to move. Gerry was in his arms and his soft hair was under his chin and Michael wanted to stay like this a little longer, enjoy the circles and spirals Gerry’s fingers were tracing on his lower back where his shirt had ridden up. 

It was nearly enough to forget the night before. But Michael couldn’t, of course, and while Gerry seemed calm there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. Michael hated it. The anger was a lot more difficult to ignore now that he was awake. He’d have to ask sooner or later anyway.

“Gerry?”

Gerry hummed, sifted a little in his arms to look up at him. Michael brushed his hair behind his ear gently, traced his eyebrow, his temple. There was still something haunted in his eyes and Michael hurt seeing it.

“I need to ask you something, Ger.”

Gerry’s eyes widened a little, fearful, and he pulled his hands away. He didn’t know what Michael wanted to ask but it couldn’t be anything good if it was right after last night. Maybe he had changed his mind about this being fine, maybe Gerry had felt relief from his anxiety too early.

“Gerry, I want to kill her.”

Gerry blinked, confused at the unexpected turn. Also at the fact that that hadn’t been a question.

“I-- You mean...Mary?”

Michael nodded. “Would you mind?”

Gerry fell silent. It had taken him so very long to work through that question after he had thought her dead. He hadn’t helped, it hadn’t even occurred to him at that moment. The fire was visible from the street and the light of the study was on and the only thing Gerry felt was relief. So he had left, and the guilt had gotten to him sooner rather than later, but he never went back. He bore it and built what could be called a new life, and had tried to move on.

Now he was thrown back to thinking back to it, and Gerry could confidently say he would’ve done the same now. He wasn’t proud of it, but the fact that Gerry had reacted the exact same way he used to to her voice, to her  _ being _ there. The fact that he still felt terrified at the idea of leaving Michael’s house, knowing she’ll be there, knowing she would  _ find _ him. He didn’t want to be back, didn’t want her to come close enough to touch, didn’t want to see her, hear her,  _ know _ she was out there. Would he mind if she were dead? No. No, he had asked himself over and over again and the answer was still the same. He felt guilty about it every time, but the answer didn’t change.

Would he mind Michael killing her? Would it make a difference to the first time? Was it different from telling Michael he wouldn’t to him not making any effort to help her out of the burning building all those years ago? Fresh guilt, but in the end, it would be the same. She’d be dead. He’d be free, not of guilt, but of fear of her. 

He shook his head. “No.”

Michael tried not to look too happy about it. Gerry didn’t look it, but he sounded sure, and that was all Michael needed. He gathered Gerry into his arms again, pressed him against his chest, raked his fingers through his hair. Gerry buried his face in Michael’s chest with a tired sigh, wrapped his arms around his torso again. Michael kissed the top of his head. He would get started on finding her once they’d get up.

*

Gerry stayed, and it seemed to be an unspoken agreement that he would until Michael found Mary. He was quiet, most of the time, spent many hours in bed even when awake, trying not to think with little success. It was easy to forget he was there. Michael didn’t, of course. He hated seeing Gerry like that. He had never been very high energy, but now he was miserable and Michael put most of his time into finding Mary more quickly to put an end to it, to make him feel safe again.

They did stop by Gerry’s apartment to pick up some of his things the third night, also because Gerry refused to drink from Michael again, said it was too soon, but he hunger was starting to gnaw at him. He felt both better and worse with Michael closeby, safer should Mary find him again, worse because Michael got to see, to know how Gerry’s nights went when he fed. 

He promised not to watch, and Gerry guessed he shouldn’t worry too much, Michael had literally allowed him to drink from him, but he still hated dragging him around alleys in the dark, telling him to wait as he ducked away to drink from those still out at these hours of the night. Michael was still waiting in the same spot when Gerry came back and held out his hand as if nothing had happened. Grateful, Gerry took it and let himself be led back to the main street.

They did have to work the night after, and it felt good to be back in a familiar routine, for both of them. Gerry felt...steadier with his camera in his hands as Michael’s music washed over him, pushed everything else out of his mind. Michael was delighted to find a smile on his lips when he threw him a glance, thin but there. They both felt a little lighter walking home that night, talking about nothing in particular like they used to.

Michael was surprised to wake up alone the following night. His head was on Gerry’s pillow, as usual, but Gerry wasn’t there, which was strange. It generally took a lot of convincing to get Gerry out of bed lately. Michael couldn’t blame him. He would join him when he could, and hoped his presence offered comfort in some way. 

Michael got up and shuffled out of his bedroom with a yawn. He tried to listen for sound, but he knew Gerry could be pretty much soundless if he wanted to. He walked into the kitchen to find water boiled and a mug waiting for him on the counter. He made himself tea and grabbed the rest of the blueberries from the night before out of the fridge, and made for the living room.

He found Gerry there, cross legged on the carpet, hair up in a messy bun, bent over his laptop. It had been sitting on the dining table ever since they had picked it up, but Gerry had had no reason to turn it on before. Michael assumed he had set it up and turned it on for work now, since his camera was sitting on the armchair to his right. He looked focused, and for a moment Michael considered turning around and letting him be, but he was too excited to see Gerry up and with anything but a worried, weary expression, he couldn’t help himself.

“Good night!”

Gerry took a short moment to look up from the screen and at Michael, hair still messy from sleep, but eyes bright like the sun, and Gerry’s lips pulled into a smile on their own. “Good night.”

Michael bent down to press a kiss to Gerry’s forehead, then looked at the screen to come face to face with himself. A picture from last night’s performance, undoubtedly. “Working on yesterday’s pictures already?”

Gerry shrugged. “No point in wasting time.”

“Should I eat in the kitchen?”

Gerry shook his head. “No, you can stay. I might just be a bit absent, but I don’t mind.”

Michael smiled and sat down on the couch across from Gerry, put his mug and bowl of berries on the coffee table. Gerry had been generally absent lately, so Michael could deal with that. At least he looked a lot more relaxed looking at his screen than he did looking into the middle distance lately.

Michael ate his berries and drank his tea at leisure, tried not to stare too much at Gerry as to not distract him. Though Gerry seemed rather absorbed in his work after a moment, not even noticing Michael’s gaze resting on him. Michael watched his features, focused, shifting to satisfied, eyes lighting up, and sometimes his whole expression went soft, and the corners of his lips quirked up into a dreamy smile and there would be adoration in his eyes and Michael was itching to know what picture was making him look like that, but he didn’t want to interrupt, or look away from Gerry’s face for that matter. So he stayed put on the couch, face warm with the occasional admiring hum escaping Gerry’s lips.

Michael didn’t know how long he just sat there watching Gerry work, studying the minute shifts in his expression, his posture, watching him run his fingers through his hair, only succeeding in messing up the bun more and more as time passed, scrunching up his eyebrows, his nose, pursing his lips, then relaxing again, smiling, satisfied. Michael didn’t know how long he sat there watching, but he thought he wouldn’t mind watching forever. 

Eventually Gerry did look up from his screen again, face surprised when he found Michael still on the couch. “Have you...just been waiting there?”

Michael shook his head. “I wasn’t waiting, just...watching.”

Gerry raised an eyebrow and got up from his position, stretched himself. “Well, I can’t imagine that watching me sit in front of my laptop for hours is all that exciting.”

Michael waited until Gerry had sat down on the couch next to him before wrapping his arms around him and squeezing him close, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “You’re wrong. I loved every second of it.”

Gerry chuckled, then smiled. “I...me, too. Work, I mean. Good distraction.”

It had always been the case. Gerry loved losing himself in adjusting colours and details and forgetting the world for a little while. Coming back to it with Michael looking at him so lovingly was certainly new, but very much welcome. Gerry allowed himself to feel a little hopeful, despite everything.

Michael hummed affirmative and kissed his temple. “I’m glad.”

“Me, too.”

*

The rest of the week passed in a blur, with concerts almost every night and the rest of the time spent working on the pictures, while Michael dedicated the time he had to finding Mary. The finding part had never been his favourite, and it had been a good while since he tried to hunt down someone, but he was getting there. It would be worth it, in the end. Gerry couldn’t distract himself with work non-stop. He was already starting to look tired from how much he tried to do so. 

Michael walked into the bedroom the day he finally found her. Gerry had gotten to bed early, it was still far from sunrise when Michael stepped into the dark room and walked up to Gerry's rolled up form on the bed, gently brushed his hair out of his face. His eyes were open. “Gerry?”

Gerry turned around to look up at him, blinked. “Hm?”

“I’m going now. To kill Mary.”

Gerry’s eyes went wide, and silence fell, and Michael wondered if he might ask him not to. Gerry took the hand in his hair and squeezed it. “Be careful.”

Michael smiled, bent down and pressed their lips together in a gentle, lingering kiss, not short on his usual intensity and Gerry felt the urge to pull him down and keep him there, kiss his lips until they’d both fall asleep, just spend the rest of his life holed up because with Michael it didn’t seem so bad. 

Except Gerry still hated taking him along to feed, and he missed his small apartment and the late nights spent looking out of his window and watching the city lights of the sleeping city. He missed being able to go on nightly walks on his own without being afraid. He missed being himself, not constantly tired and anxious and feeling on the verge of tears because he couldn’t sleep from thinking too much.

Michael broke the kiss with a smile, pressed a small kiss to the bridge of his nose. “I will. Try to sleep, you look exhausted.”

Gerry always looked exhausted lately. He couldn’t help it, but he nodded. Michael kissed his forehead and left.

*

Gerry did not sleep. Neither did he feel fully awake when he heard the door close hours later. The moment Gerry stumbled out of the bedroom the scent hit him. Blood.

“Michael?”

Michael’s head appeared in the door from the kitchen. “Gerry? I thought you might be asleep, did I wake you?”

There was blood on his face, smudged on his chin. Gerry pressed his lips together. “Is...Are you alright?”

Michael nodded, walked out of the kitchen and into the hallway. “Got a bit messy.” He rubbed at some splatters of blood on his neck. “But I’m unharmed.”

“Did...did it work?” Gerry didn’t know when he had grabbed the doorframe, and neither did he know if it was for support or focus, but his grip tightened.

Another nod. “She’s dead.”

Gerry was silent. He had somehow simultaneously expected it to be more and less of a blow to hear those words.

Michael’s voice took on a gentler tone as he said, “Let me just take a quick shower, love, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Gerry felt himself nod, walked back into the bedroom. 

Michael joined him in bed a little later, kept his distance. Gerry rolled over after a moment, buried his face in Michael’s shoulder. Michael tentatively ran his other hand through his hair. “How do you feel?”

A dry chuckle escaped Gerry’s lips. “Like I should thank you.”

Michael wrapped an arm around him, pulled him close. “You don’t have to.”

Gerry nodded, leaned into the hug. He felt that same numbness he had the night of the fire. She was dead because of him. Again. And Gerry felt like he was feeling too much and too little about it at the same time, like he wasn’t feeling what he  _ should _ be feeling, whatever that was. Relief? Grief? Neither seemed right, and he was feeling both and it felt wrong. He was so tired.

Michael pressed his lips to his hair. “Try to sleep.”

Again, Gerry nodded, his throat feeling too tight to speak. Michael’s hand was rubbing circles into his back, and Gerry tried to focus on that, put his hand over Michael’s heart, tried to let the steady beat drown out his thoughts.

*

Gerry awoke to an empty bed, which wasn’t too uncommon since he had started barely leaving it. But it  _ felt _ early, a lot earlier than Michael would ever reasonably get up. Gerry felt for his phone on the nightstand and the time on the screen was definitely more hours before sunset than Michael would usually wake up, much less get out of bed. 

He felt unsteady when he got up. He hadn’t slept much, nor had he slept well and his eyes felt gross with dried tears. He rubbed at them, which did little to help the feeling. With a sigh, he left the bedroom in search of Michael.

He found him sitting by the door to the backyard in the kitchen, bathed in evening light, and Gerry froze at the door. It had been a long time since he had seen sunlight in general, but there was something ethereal to  _ Michael _ in the sunlight, the way his hair looked radiant in the orange light, his whole face alight, shining eyes and pale freckles illuminated in the gentle light.

“You’re...up early?” Gerry breathed.

Michael looked up at him, gave a smile. “Had to feed the chicken.”

Gerry raised an eyebrow. “Chicken…?”

Michael wiggled a piece of lettuce he was holding between his fingers and, sure enough, a brown chicken appeared in the door, followed the lettuce a little bit into the kitchen to peck at it when Michael set it down. “There was one in her apartment last night. Didn’t want to leave it behind.”

Gerry blinked a couple times, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, of Michael’s words. “You...brought Mary’s chicken home?”

Michael pet the chicken's head and nodded. “Only temporarily, I’ll find it a place to go soon enough.” 

Gerry simply stared as Michael rubbed the chicken's head, pulled his hand away once she tried to peck it. It was absurd, thoroughly absurd to wake up to his mother dead and his lover feeding a chicken he had found in her apartment where he killed her and Gerry felt like he was choking on all of it. He opened his mouth to breathe, and instead started laughing. It was high-pitched and broken and there were fresh tears in his eyes, and he couldn’t  _ stop _ .

Michael was there in a second and Gerry felt Michael’s arms around him and collapsed into his embrace, unsure if he was crying or laughing or both, but he was shaking and tired and pressed his face into Michael’s chest. Michael stroked his hair, and held him through fits of giggles and sobs until they mellowed, subsided after minutes that felt like hours for both of them.

“Sorry…” Gerry mumbled as he pulled away from the hug a little, wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand.

Michael shook his head, pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Nothing to apologise.” 

Gerry let himself fall back against the wall, looked up at Michael who looked distinctly worried, but unsure what to do about it. Gerry tried for a reassuring smile that looked more like a pained grimace. Michael gently brushed some loose black strands of hair behind his ear, concern clear in his face. “It’s still early, don’t you want to try and get more sleep?”

Gerry leaned into the small touch. “I don’t think I can.”

Michael didn’t look happy with the answer, but nodded, moved to turn away. “Alright, then let me close the door-”

Gerry grabbed his sleeve. “No, it’s fine. I’ll stay here.”

Michael looked back at him, brows furrowed. He knew sunlight was uncomfortable for Gerry, painful even. He was out of reach now, in the shadow of the fridge, but his request was still concerning. “Gerry, please-”

“I don’t mind. It’s...it’s been a while since I’ve seen the sunset,” his voice was strangely quiet, like he was sharing a secret. Michael watched his face for a moment before nodding.

They sat down against the wall, safely in the shade, and watched the light coming from the outside slowly turning orange and red and purple. The chicken seemed entirely unbothered and unimpressed by it, and continued to eat where Michael had left it.

“Do you miss it? The sun?” Michael mumbled after a moment.

Gerry looked up from where he had been leaning his head against Michael’s shoulder, looked at Michael’s face. He  _ grinned _ . “Not as bad anymore.”

Michael’s brows furrowed at the playful tone and he looked at him, trying to figure out what he meant. Gerry simply kept grinning at him, eyes crinkling at the edges. It all looked a little watery, but genuine.

“Oh…” Michael felt his cheeks warm at being compared to  _ the sun _ , his lips pulling up into a flustered smile. “Flatterer.”

Gerry chuckled, and squeezed his hand where he was holding it before looking back at the door, the now bright red light painting the kitchen in flames, and he sighed and rested his head against Michael’s shoulder again.

*

Gerry took a shower once the light was fully swallowed by night and Michael moved to make himself some breakfast. He was halfway through eating it when Gerry emerged in the kitchen door again, hair still wet and dressed to go outside.

“Taking a walk,” he mumbled.

Michael nodded, rubbed at his eye. “Take the keys in case I fall asleep again.”

Gerry smiled a little, crossed the room to give Michael a kiss. “Okay. See you in a bit.”

Michael watched Gerry leave the room again with a smile. “Take care.”

Gerry felt immediately better when he was outside and walking. The nights were still warm, but not unbearably so, and there was a bit of wind playing in his hair as he walked. He had no destination in mind, didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was outside again, on his own, and didn’t feel terrified of the very idea. 

There was still plenty of reasons to be on guard, of course, and Gerry never wasn’t but the reasons now were impersonal and manageable and Gerry breathed deeply just because, and ran, because he felt like it, because there was too much energy and emotions he didn’t know where to put right now, a glass threatening to spill over, and he wanted to feel the night on his skin, soothing or maybe just a silent witness, unjudging, as he ran.

Gerry felt lighter when he reached Michael’s door again. Or maybe that wasn’t the right word, he didn’t think he’d feel truly light anytime soon. But more centered. Focused. Better. He opened the door quietly in case Michael was sleeping and slipped out of his boots before walking further into the house. 

Michael was curled up on the couch, which, considering his tendency of thrashing around in sleep, was a little worrying. But Gerry didn’t have it in himself to wake him, not when his face was so peaceful in sleep. The chicken was sleeping, too, in the crook of Michael’s arm, and Gerry decided to put a blanket over them both before sitting down in the armchair. He closed his eyes despite knowing sleep wouldn’t be coming for him, but he wanted to focus on the steady sound of Michael’s breathing. Even if he wouldn’t sleep, it always soothed him.

Gerry stayed. Part of it was that the coming week was a busy one and it didn’t occur to him to move back amidst concerts and editing every night. Part of it was because he had grown comfortable at Michael’s, and it distracted him from everything he knew he would sooner or later deal with.

The chicken was still there for a couple days. She seemed to have taken a liking to Michael, followed him around and cuddled up beside him or in his lap whenever he sat down. She seemed more unsure about Gerry, but with enough bribery he eventually got her to eat from his hand, too. She even let him pet her without attacking him by the end. 

Michael sat down on the kitchen floor next to him during one of those instances, where Gerry had been scratching the chicken’s head and watched her eyes close in bliss. 

“Made a friend, finally?”

His tone was playful, but gentle. The chicken escaped from under Gerry’s fingers after blinking a couple times, and jumped into Michael’s lap. Gerry sighed.

“Think she prefers you.”

Michael scratched her head. “Probably just prefers warmth, it’s nothing personal.”

Gerry hummed, leaned his head against the doorframe. “You found somewhere for her to go?”

Michael nodded. “I’ll meet them in two days.”

Again, Gerry hummed. Michael held out his hand and Gerry took it, let himself be pulled towards Michael. Michael wrapped one arm around him and pressed him into his side, buried his face in Gerry’s hair.

“How do you feel?”

He asked that question a lot lately, concern clear in his voice. It made Gerry smile, the novelty of being cared for still not feeling old. “I’m okay, I think.”

“If I can do anything…”

“You’re already doing plenty.” Gerry looked up, pressed their lips together. “Thank you.”

Michael pressed their foreheads together. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

*

The night after the chicken was handed over to her new home happened to also be their first work-free night after a week, and it was strange to be able to linger in bed again, knowing full well that they had nowhere to be and no chicken to feed. They were unsure who initiated the kiss, but it didn’t matter. The fact that nothing mattered when Michael was kissing him had never changed. Maybe it had only become more true as time went on, as Gerry kissed his face and jaw and neck and there was nothing more important than the feeling of Michael’s skin under his lips as he did, too.

He pressed a kiss to the spot right beneath Michael’s jaw, lingering, and Michael ran his fingers through his hair. He had been observing for a while how Gerry’s kisses lingered most in very specific spots. It wasn’t too novel of a concept, he guessed, and it wasn’t that he gave it much thought, generally. 

Gerry’s cool lips felt good on his skin, and the fact that he lingered the most when he kissed Michael’s wrists, the spot right below his jaw, his pulse, was simply something Michael had come to notice over time. He wondered if Gerry was aware of it. So he asked, hoping it didn’t sound like an odd thing to take notice of.

There was a long moment of silence after, before Gerry mumbled. “I just...like how alive you feel. How undeniably alive you are when I can feel your heartbeat, your pulse under my lips.” He chuckled, embarrassed, “Sorry, that sounds...really weird. But...it’s nice? It’s...like the fact that you’re warm. I like it. It’s just...not something I have, maybe it’s that. Maybe I miss feeling alive myself. I don’t know.” Gerry looked up at him, uncertain. “Do you want me to stop? I- I guess it might be unnerving, but I wouldn’t bite you, I-”

Michael didn’t mean to interrupt, but he couldn’t help but snort at that. “Oh, that’s not a worry of mine. I know you wouldn’t, probably not even if I begged you to do it.” He brushed Gerry’s hair behind his ear, gently. “I was just...curious. If you even realised that you were doing it.”

Gerry shrugged. “I guess…yes and no. It’s just...I like the feeling. So I...linger, I guess.”

“Mhm, makes sense.” Michael sighed, followed curve of Gerry’s jaw with his fingers. “It feels nice.”

“Really?” Curious.

“Yes.” Michael hesitated, before adding. “I’d try to show you but I’ve also noticed you never really seem to want me to kiss those spots…”

“You’re...observant.” He sounded flustered.

“I guess.” Michael shrugged. “Do...is there a reason? Or do you simply...not like it?”

Silence fell again and Michael was still idly stroking Gerry’s jaw as he waited for an answer, or a sign that there would be none. Maybe it had sounded pushy, maybe Michael shouldn’t have asked at all. He worried.

Gerry shifted a little, and Michael loosened the half-embrace he was holding him in. But Gerry didn’t shuffle away, only rearranged himself so he could speak clearly. “I don’t...I don’t think I dislike it. I don’t  _ remember _ disliking it. It’s more that...I mean, I’m aware of how it...should...be.” He put his fingers to the spot he had kissed a moment ago. There was barely any pressing necessary to feel Michael’s steady pulse under his fingers. He sighed. “I don’t have...any of that. It’s all...quiet. Unmoving.” His voice went a little more quiet as he continued. “It doesn’t sound...pleasant? It’ll just be a reminder-”

“Gerry,” there was fondness in his voice as he interrupted, shuffled so he could prop himself up on his elbow, look at Gerry’s face properly. He couldn’t see much of it in the dark except the occasional flicker of his eyes, that strange luminescence he had noticed in the beginning and thought a trick of the light. There was no light now, Michael kept it out for Gerry’s comfort, and he had learned by now that Gerry’s eyes simply did that sometimes. “Gerry, I love being reminded of you.”

Michael could hear the frown, even if he could only vaguely make it out in the dark bedroom. “It’s not of me, it’s...it’s a reminder of the fact that I’m not human.”

Michael sighed, cupped his cheek. “It’s all you. It’s part of you, and I love all of you. So still, it would, by no means, be an unpleasant reminder.”

Gerry shook his head. “You say that so easily. You don’t even know if it really wouldn’t bother you.”

“Well, how long did we have this similar discussion about laying my head on your chest? And in the end, I wasn’t bothered by your lacking heartbeat, was I?”

Michael was right. And it wasn’t that Gerry didn’t believe him, he did. It was more that he worried that, eventually, it would get to the point where it would be too much, the stillness of Gerry’s body. Unnatural. Dead. Obviously inhuman. He was too aware of it, had been forced to never forget it, the undeniable signs that marked him for what he was, that made it impossible for him to get too close lest somebody would notice. Like Michael had. And he kept noticing and kept acting like it was nothing and Gerry wanted to hold on to it, to let this wash away old memories of harsh words and unkind fingers pressing down on a pulse Gerry had lost until it hurt and he relented.

“Fine,” he whispered, and felt the lack of a quickening heartbeat, of the pulse in his ears to match the anxiety he was feeling, deafening. 

Michael frowned. “You don’t have to.” 

Gerry nodded. “I know. But...it’s okay. If you want.”

Michael gently caressed his cheek with his thumb, before tracing his cheekbones, his jaw. He leaned down, brushed his lips against where his fingers had just passed, followed the curve of Gerry’s jaw. It was difficult to tell what exactly he was kissing, but Michael didn’t mind. He had been wanting to kiss Gerry’s neck for so long and now he could and did, left lingering kisses wherever his lips found skin, cool as always. He heard Gerry’s breath hitch and waited a moment, but Gerry didn’t say anything, relaxed under his lips. He could feel Gerry’s fingers raking through his hair, a gentle encouragement, and Michael continued, kissed his throat, the spot below his jaw, pulse points that were silent, but still felt good to press his lips to. 

Michael’s hand had wandered to Gerry’s chest, rested where it could feel the occasional rise and fall of it, irregular and far-between as Gerry seemed to relax further, melt under Michael’s kisses, gentle but insistent. Gerry knew Michael was feeling the unnatural stillness under Gerry’s skin, and he kept going and Gerry calmed until his breathing stopped and Michael smiled. 

*

A whole week and a half had passed since Mary’s death before Gerry finally decided to leave for his own apartment again. He felt like he could, and more importantly, like he should because there was only so much time he could distract himself from the inevitable process of working through his involvement in Mary’s death again. 

Michael was doing a poor job in hiding his disappointment, but he didn’t stop Gerry, of course. He helped him pack up and accompanied him to his apartment. It was his second time in it, and Michael marveled at the details he hadn’t had the time to notice the first time, when they had quickly packed up some things and hurried back to his house. 

There were photographs taped to the walls, which he _ had _ noticed then, but he hadn’t had much time to look at them. They were beautiful, mostly empty streets and roads, an unoccupied park bench, a handful of tangerines on a table. Michael assumed they were all taken at night, but many didn’t look it, had light and colour that made it look more like midday, or sometimes afternoon, one early morning. Some were left dark, and Michael thought he recognised those the easiest, but they were all stunning and Michael ached as he looked at them.

Gerry caught him looking at them and smiled. “Do you like them?”

Michael nodded. “I do. They’re beautiful…”

“Thank you.” He smiled, watched Michael walk around to look at more photos. 

It was strange to have somebody standing in his apartment. Gerry had always gone out of his way to keep where he lived secret, certainly had never had any  _ visitors _ . With a start Gerry realised that he didn’t want Michael to go just yet, that he wanted to have him with him in his usually empty apartment. It felt more homely. “Do you...want to stay today?”

Michael looked up from a photograph of the starry sky, gave him a hopeful smile. “If you’ll have me.”

Gerry chuckled. “Of course.”

Gerry’s bed was smaller than Michael’s, but it didn’t really matter. It was more than clear by now that if not at the beginning, then at least by the end of the night Michael would be half-lying on Gerry. They didn’t need a whole lot of space to manage that.

Gerry hadn’t really gotten much sleep and Michael didn’t want to leave him. He watched him rub his eyes. They were standing at the door to Gerry’s apartment, and had technically already said their goodbyes but Michael didn’t want to go. He knew he had to.

But first, he had to make sure Gerry knew he could call him at any point. “If you need anything…”

“I’ll let you know.” Gerry smiled, tired but endeared. “Michael, we’ll see each other at work in a week anyway. I’ll be fine.”

Michael bit his lip. “I know, just...if you need something, or just...someone to talk to. Don’t hesitate.”

Gerry nodded. “Thank you.”

They shared a last kiss before Michael turned around to leave. Gerry watched him go, a strange levity to it since he knew they’d see each other again soon, that he could just get his phone and hear Michael’s voice if he wanted to. He smiled as he moved back into his apartment that didn’t feel quite as empty anymore.

*

Things slowly went back to how they had been before Mary. They mostly saw each other at work and Gerry looked more tired than he used to, but he assured Michael he was doing fine, considering all. They’d take walks again after concerts and Gerry would stay over and let Michael hold him, and the crushing guilt with all else that had started to resurface didn’t seem quite as crushing.

Michael still worried, and struggled to find balance between giving Gerry the space he asked for while at the same time checking up on him, making sure he was fine. It didn’t seem like the right thing to do to leave Gerry completely alone and neither did that seem to be what he wanted. 

Sometimes it would be him who would call or text Michael on sleepless days when things were bad because thinking about Mary’s death inevitably brought back memories of his life with her and sometimes, he felt like they were choking him. Sometimes it was Michael who asked if he was alright, needed anything, if he wanted Michael to come over. Gerry did, most of the time, because it was good to not feel alone with Mary’s ghost, because Michael still reassured him that she wasn’t right, no matter how many times Gerry fell back into struggling to believe it.

He felt sorry about it, about constantly rehashing the same conversations and arguments, but it all came bubbling up and Gerry was back in that house and struggling not to cry because it only made her words sharper, her experiments more cruel. Michael held him and reassured him, again and again, that he didn’t mind talking Gerry out of that hellhole, wished he could do more. And sometimes Gerry would fall asleep, exhaustion finally catching up with him, and he’d look peaceful and Michael wished he could go back in time and protect him from everything that was making him unable to look like this more often.

He couldn’t, he knew, so he tried to support him as best as he could, and sometimes he would catch Gerry smile as he played on stage and sometimes Gerry would be joking and laughing on their way home, would kiss him under the stars in Michael’s small backyard and let Michael kiss his wrists and trace the dead veins under his skin, and things seemed good. Michael was happy and, if asked, Gerry said he was, too.

*

Gerry was waiting. He had barely had time to say hello once Michael asked him in before he had been led to the couch and had been told to wait, that Michael had something for him. Gerry had never heard his voice like that before, laced with a nervous edge. So Gerry was curious what it was that had Michael talk like that, move with something close to uncertainty, a strange kind of nervous energy.

It had been a rough weekend for Gerry and, subsequently, for Michael and Gerry had arrived with an apology on his tongue, but Michael had simply waved it away, told him not to worry, kissed his forehead and disappeared. So Gerry stayed put, let the familiar calm of Michael’s living room sooth his nerves.

He heard Michael’s rushed steps, then slower as he approached, violin in hand. Gerry watched as Michael sat down on the armchair, on the edge of it as he met Gerry’s eyes with a tentative smile.

“You’re going to play something?” Gerry asked, nodding towards the violin. 

Michael nodded, “I composed something for you.”

That made Gerry sit up a little straighter. “For me?”

Again, a nod and Michael put the violin under his chin, made sure it was tuned to his liking once more. Gerry watched with new interest. Not only because of the implication that this wasn’t just Michael playing him some piece of his, but one specifically  _ for _ Gerry. But also because it was...odd to see Michael with his violin like this. Hair down and a little messy, a washed-out pink sweater and a grey skirt Gerry had seen him wear a lot around the house that looked like it had seen better days. It was such a far cry to his usual dress shirt, sometimes a whole suit, and Gerry was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was the only one seeing Michael like this, in this very moment. It filled him with a strange sense of reverence.

Michael chuckled when he looked up and saw Gerry’s awed expression. “What is it?”

Gerry blinked, embarrassed. “Oh, uh...I’m just...not used to seeing you play. Like this.”

“What, did you think I’d practice in a suit? At home?” There was an amused glint in his eye that made Gerry feel warm, despite knowing full well his cheeks couldn’t blush anymore.

“To be honest I...never considered you practicing,” he mumbled. 

It was silly, but the truth. Playing had always looked like breathing for Michael, like it was part of him, essential and unmistakingly connected. The fact that he had to learn to play and practice simply seemed like an alien idea to Gerry. And he never had while Gerry lived with him, as far as he remembered.

Michael laughed, his light, private laugh Gerry had grown so fond of. A strange melody, a song ending on a content sigh, beautiful and odd and so  _ Michael _ . It put a smile on Gerry’s lips.

“Flatterer.”

“I’m being honest.”

Michael winked. “I know.” He took a steadying breath, as he often did before setting foot on stage. Though this one seemed a lot shakier than Gerry was used to. “Ready?” he asked with a smile.

Gerry nodded, got comfortable. It was Michael so Gerry had a fairly good idea of what to expect. He was curious how different the atmosphere would be without an audience. He always felt like the utterly enraptured listeners magnified the magic that was Michael playing. He watched with anticipation as Michael brought the bow to the violin, and started playing.

Gerry froze. Something was different. The notes came slower, Michael’s fingers dancing over the strings, not a blur but quick, fluid movements, elegant and hypnotic. Gerry took a moment to manage to drag his eyes away from them and look into Michael’s face in search for an explanation and Michael’s eyes were closed, the light catching in his pale eyelashes, dancing over his freckled cheeks and nose as he moved, gently. 

It was so very different from how Gerry was used to seeing him play, his face relaxed, movements less, more subdued. It didn't lack his usual intensity, though. Gerry couldn't look away or not listen, though it seemed less like a force drawing him to do so this time and more of a request he simply couldn't deny. Not when Michael looked so strangely...naked. There was no theatrics and no flashing smiles, his expression so open, shifting slightly with the music as it dropped into something more sombre, then rose again into something more happy and Gerry felt it more as much as he heard it and, he felt himself be swept away by the notes as usual. Except it felt so much more private, intimate, with Michael sitting right there, only Gerry to listen, the music so strangely sweet it ached in Gerry's chest. It wasn't a bad ache, not at all, but Gerry felt overwhelmed by emotions he couldn't quite put his finger on as he listened and Michael carried on, eyes closed, movements languid. 

Gerry was in awe of the music as much as he was in awe of Michael himself. This was a side of him Gerry had never seen, had maybe glimpsed late at night or in the early morning, but would have never imagined ever seeing like this, just laid out in front of him, Michael in his usual intensity and this unusual one, that played music so sweet it hurt and was making Gerry feel things he didn't know how to name.

By the time Michael was done and his eyes fluttered open again, the closest word Gerry could find to describe what he was feeling was  _ acceptance _ and he could feel tears gathering in his eyes, which he quickly wiped away with his sleeve.

"Are you alright?" came Michael’s voice, strangely quiet, like he was exhausted.

Gerry nodded, swallowed, before looking up again. Michael was smiling at him, relaxed though there was still a nervous edge to it, a glimmer in his eyes that seemed out of place.

He got up from the couch and moved to sit next to Gerry, gathered him in his arms and buried his face in Gerry's hair.

"I love you, Gerry."

There was such weight to it all of a sudden, after hearing it in every note, weaved into every minute movement of his fingers. It wasn’t a bad weight, it felt comfortable, like waking up with Michael half curled up on his chest, like drawn into a hug after they hadn’t seen each other in a bit and suddenly the world felt right, in that moment. Gerry would feel light again, as he was right now.

Gerry held his breath, before mumbling, "I believe you." He felt Michael relax, the last of that strange tension bleeding out of him at Gerry's voice, thick with emotions he couldn't even begin to describe. So instead, he returned Michael’s hug, whispering "I love you, too." 

**Author's Note:**

> on the 15th of december I presented this idea to my friend saying what I want to write is "Basically just 2 scenes, maybe some flashback"


End file.
